Cross Fire
by x-Energy.Purple-x
Summary: A mission gone wrong. A confession that Phil Coulson had never prepared himself for. A bond built on trust that Clint Barton believed as shattered as his true feelings for his handler. How could they fix everything that had seemingly been broken between them? Sometimes, it's easier to throw yourself into the cross fire than to walk away. Eventual Clint/Coulson slash!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So, new fic, completely new fandom! Hey everyone! As a massive, long time lover and obsessive follower of Avengers fic - more specifically, Clint/Coulson - I knew it wouldn't be long before I got bitten by the bug. This entire fic is already written (53,000+ words in the space of 13 days!), so I'll be posting regular updates every few days. Fingers crossed, this won't be the last time I'll be writing in this amazing fandom :D**

**Any reviews, critiques, criticisms? Feel free to let me know! Anything and everything that can help me to grow as a writer is always appreciated :)**

**Insert standard non-ownership disclaimer here :(**

**WARNINGS: Whilst this chapter is reasonably tame other than some violence, this fic will contain some heavy stuff. Implied non-con, off screen torture, angst, and an explosion of the pheels (followed by a gratuitous amount of sex). Enter at your own risk!**

**Enjoy guys! :)**

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"You alright down there, sir? Looks like you might need a bit of warming up."

The slight drawl at the end of Clint's words made Phil smile briefly. "One of these days Barton, you might actually learn the meaning of radio silence."

Phil instinctively knew that somewhere, from up one of the vast expanse of trees in the mountains they were hiding in, that he was getting flipped the bird, and that little bit of knowledge made him feel more normal than he had in months.

"Yeah, but like you'd want to deny yourself the pleasure of hearing my voice whispering your name."

The low, breathy tone that coloured Clint's voice was one that made Phil blush with exasperation and embarrassment, but he couldn't help himself as he let a soft, teasing grin curl his lips, knowing that the archer would be able to see him.

"Of course, Barton, didn't anyone ever work out that all those personal debriefs were so that I wouldn't have to share you with anyone else?"

A deep laugh rumbled down the comm line, and Phil felt a warmth flood through him; very few people could understand how Phil had managed to put up with Clint, or the weird quirks they developed between them.

Like the flirting.

It was nothing more than a game, one that helped to settle them both during missions; the cheeky winks, double entendres, the shared looks and touches that set the rumour mills running wild whenever some new recruit saw them together, it was nothing more than the way they worked. Clint, after all, was a naturally charming, flirtatious guy; playing him in his own games was the easiest way that Phil had found to bond with him, to show him that he actually listened and paid attention.

"So, about that warming up…"

Clint's tone dropped a few octaves, his voice taking on a seductive, suave edge, and Phil's smile grew as he leaned back against the tree behind him; he could've picked somewhere more sheltered as his base for the mission, but that went against his own philosophy of actually being out as a field agent.

"Maybe later, over some hot coffee," Phil breathed out huskily, trying to balance out the laughter that he knew would be lacing his words with the authority that being the lead field Agent meant he had to maintain. "If you stop talking and pay attention."

Phil smiled at the mumbled curses that suddenly filled his ear. "Ah, come on, boss," Clint whined down the radio, and Phil could fully imagine the pout that would be forming on his face. "The target isn't scheduled to arrive for another 20 minutes, and I'm fucking bored."

"The last time you said those words, I believe you bought me nearly an extra two weeks of paperwork Barton."

"And I thought we agreed never to discuss Madagascar again."

Phil knew that was a lie. _He_ had agreed never to discuss Madagascar again; Clint seemed to enjoy bringing it up as often as he could. At least the highest thing Clint could fling himself off of here was a tree, and there was more than enough snow to make sure that his Asset wouldn't really cause much damage to himself this time.

Phil let out a slight huff, one that bordered the line between amusement and exasperation and that he only ever seemed to use on these sorts of missions with Barton. "Just focus on the mission, Agent."

He could've sworn he almost heard Clint's smile down the comm. "Yes Sir, Sir!" And just like that, silence descended around them.

He knew Barton was only humouring him, but he couldn't deny the warmth that spread through him at the thought. It had been nearly 4 months since New York and the Loki incident that had left him laid up for nearly just as long. It had only been for the last two months that he'd technically been back amongst the land of the living and confined to his office with the obscene mountain of paperwork that being the new Avengers Liaison – or just being within a ten mile radius of Tony Stark – seemed to spontaneously produce.

Despite appearances, he'd been itching to get back out in the field; he didn't care what rumours the junior Agents believed, he wasn't married to his desk, and he most definitely wasn't some superhuman form filling machine.

He also definitely did not secretly have multiple drawers and cabinets in his office that defined regulations on how to be the scariest senior Agent to walk the face of the earth, or how he'd manage to take down a whole drug consortium with nothing more than a tie, a pen lid and the remainder of his lunch; he most definitely blamed Barton for those ones.

His Asset seemed to be behind almost every improbable fact and feat of skill that the junior Agents discussed over a Canteen coffee in awe and fear, but he couldn't be bothered to stop it. Some of the more creative ones that made their way back to him through Hill and Sitwell were entertaining after all. However, two months of paperwork and operative assessments were too much even for him.

The moment he'd been cautiously cleared by the SHIELD medics to return to active duty on the grounds that he was not to get physically involved with any missions and would be present purely as the eyes, ears and intel behind his team, he'd knocked straight on Fury's door and asked for anything that could get him off base for more than 5 minutes. Fury had been skeptical, but Phil was a man on a mission, and Fury knew better than to cross him.

When the assignment had fallen on his desk, he didn't think he'd ever been more ready in his life for what was essentially little more than a milk run. It was a straight forward assignment, one that Phil would've almost been insulted at if given to him more than 6 months ago, but he was grateful nonetheless. A simple take-down of a major arms dealer who'd been proving more than a thorn in SHIELD's side for weeks.

The photo of him in the file looked inconspicuous enough; short brown hair, above average build, a snazzy Rolex around his wrist that made Phil instantly think of sleazy film gangsters, but Phil knew from previous reports that he was trouble. The dealer, Vince Cooper, had been responsible for supplying arms to HYDRA operatives; he worked in nuclear weapons with the capacity to rival Stark Industries in its heyday, and he'd been indirectly behind the assassinations and murders of three other major ammunition tycoons, two FBI agents, and a SHIELD operative. He needed taking out, fast, and the easiest way to do that was a bullet or an arrow through the head when he least expected it.

The fact that Fury wanted this dealt with as immediately as possible, and that they were dealing with a known killer, meant that the only real options they had for the actual takedown were Clint and himself, but Phil didn't overly mind that.

The fact that it was just him and Clint seemed to balance out Phil's initial disappointment at the apparent routineness of the mission.

Okay, so sometimes Phil wanted to strangle his wise-cracking, frankly irritating Asset who didn't know the definition of personal space, appropriate topic subjects or radio silence unless Phil spelt it out for him, but Phil couldn't deny his almost indulgent pleasure at being able to see Clint truly relax and be himself.

Despite the closeness that existed between Clint and Natasha, Clint seemed to revel in Phil's presence; he became more confident in himself, less unsure or nervous. He willingly engaged in conversation where he would've otherwise been mute with other Agents, he didn't flinch whenever Phil snuck up on him, or touched him, and the way he reacted to Phil's approval with a shy smile and an almost embarrassingly gleeful glance emphatically made Phil believe that every other handler Clint had been bounced between had never really taken the chance to see behind the numerous insubordination raps and disciplinary strikes that marred the archers record.

Through his earpiece, he could hear Clint quietly narrating on the scarce action going on around him, _"Goddamn, crazy ass fucking squirrels in this neck of the…"_ and Phil let a smile curl his numbed lips as he mentally went over the current standing of the mission.

All the intelligence and heavy work had been done the previous week, and all that was left was to take out the head before he reached an agreement with HYDRA over some nuclear weapons they'd been manufacturing.

Alright, so he didn't approve of the fact that it was near freezing conditions in the middle of a mountain forest in rural Canada with some abandoned warehouses as the only things ensuring they were in the right place, or of the fact that the low-risk rating of the assignment meant that any Evac team would take nearly 48 hours to reach them up on the perch they had chosen in the best case scenario, but he was happy all the same.

He rubbed his hands together, a dull ache emanating from his chest as a shiver rolled down his spine. He really wasn't a fan of cold weather missions. Okay, so most of the time, they didn't go any better or worse than the warm weather ones (during his months of office bound hell, he had briefly considered making a spread sheet to compare the impact of the weather and atmosphere conditions on mission success ratios, but he didn't think that even he was _that_ bored), but at least if things fucked up in the Mediterranean, he didn't fear dying of hypothermia or losing vital body parts because of frostbite.

The temperature was constantly dropping as night set in, and he couldn't imagine how Barton was feeling. Clint tended to react to the cold about as well as Natasha did to cheap black market vodka. He didn't complain, Clint never really truthfully complained about anything, but he could whine and pout until Fury or some other poor lead senior Agent took the hint.

Phil, to the sheer astonishment and confusion of the other seniors back at SHIELD Headquarters, had somehow become immune to Clint's protests; sure, he might end up with an arrow or Nerf gun dart in his office door occasionally, or have Clint sulk away in the vents above his office and do his take on running commentaries of Phil's paperwork that day, but that was just normal Clint behaviour. Very few people could understand his Asset – after New York, even fewer people wanted to – but Phil felt more than honoured at the privilege of having Clint on his side.

He couldn't go so far as to say Clint trusted him, because Clint didn't trust anybody, but it was as close to Clint's version of trust as anyone else had ever managed, and that was good enough for him.

When they had arrived on site, ready to begin setting up for the assignment, Phil had told Clint with an easy smile that he could decide his side of the operation – the perch, the position, the signals, the choice of ammunition. The grin that lit up Clint's face, the depth of gratitude and almost profound affection that he openly displayed in his eyes as Phil's faith and trust in him, spoke volumes to Phil, and Phil had to suppress the chuckle he wanted to give when he watched Clint dart off into the forest like an excited child given the keys to a toy shop.

Of course Clint had chosen to inhabit the most exposed tree in the area, citing a clearer shot as more important than a few hours of discomfort; as it was, Clint had already been perched on his branch for nearly 4 hours, his entire body taut and ready for the moment that their target came into view. Clint probably wouldn't be wearing his gloves either; not even Stark had managed to come up with a thin enough material that wouldn't supposedly impede on Clint's ability to take the shot, but Phil wasn't sure if Clint was actually telling the truth or just doing it to wind Tony up and be difficult.

He didn't think either way would be too far a stretch of the imagination for his Specialist, but he put his money on the latter.

Hell, he'd seen Clint put an arrow in a target's eye from 500 yards, hanging by his ankles from a fire escape ladder after the building he'd been standing on had exploded; he wasn't called the 'World's Greatest Marksmen' for nothing, and there definitely was a sense of friction between Clint and Tony.

It wasn't a nasty sort of friction, just the type that appeared when you placed two exceptionally hyperactive and intelligent superheroes in a room with each other who both insisted that their particular skill set was better; the last time they'd gotten into that argument, Tony had hidden all of Clint's bows, and Clint had somehow convinced JARVIS to overload the main fuses into Stark's lab anytime he tried to power something up.

That hadn't been a fun week for anyone.

The minutes seemed to drag on for hours as they waited, and Phil could hear the soft rasping of Clint's clothing as he tried to hold his position, the Agent occasionally muttering something under his breath as he attempted to keep focused on the task at hand. Phil frowned slightly when he heard what sounded like a quiet grunt of pain come down into his earpiece, and he opened the line.

"Everything alright up there, Agent?"

It took Clint nearly a minute to respond, during which time Phil nearly considered hunting down his Asset to personally check on him. Phil pointedly ignored the fact that if it was anyone else on the other end of the line, he probably would've been patient and waited for an answer; it wasn't his fault if Clint managed to provoke such a sense of protectiveness and concern in him. A rumble of static exploded in his ear.

"Yeah," Clint breathed back, "just checking that I still had functioning lower limbs, boss. I feel like a fucking ice statue," and Phil couldn't deny the small bubble of relief that seemed to burst at the gravelly tone of Clint's voice.

Just as Phil was about to reply, he could make out the faint sound of a car engine breaking through the otherwise silent hills. "Target's car has been sighted, coming in from about half a mile on your left."

Clint's voice was suddenly strong and authoritative, the slight breathlessness from previously gone, and Phil knew that it was show time. For all that Clint was annoying as hell and inappropriately reckless at the best of time when off duty and terrorising the other Avengers, Phil really did admire the sense of professionalism and stubborn desire to successfully complete his mission at any and every cost that Clint had thrumming through him.

He could heard the crunching of the snow under tyres as the vehicle got closer, and his right hand instinctively raised to sit lightly on his waist where his holster was.

"Sir, something's not right."

The tension in Clint's voice suddenly put Phil on guard. "We have a second vehicle coming in from your right, and the first one is carrying way more than one guy."

Phil frowned heavily. "Have you got any visuals on the target?"

"Negative, Sir. He is not in the car. Don't look like any recognised HYDRA personnel either."

"Keep constant visual on the individuals and report any suspicious behaviour immediately. Someone here definitely doesn't add up."

Clint didn't respond, but Phil could hear the Agent's breathing level out, getting ready to react to anything. This most definitely wasn't the outcome that he was expecting. He tried to think for a couple of minutes, mentally combing over every detail of the intel mission for any inaccuracies or conflicting information.

"Sir," Clint's voice was sharp now. "Sir, there are 6 suspects, all male and heavily armed."

"What are we looking at?" Phil could almost hear the faint waver of humour and amusement beneath the concern in Clint's voice.

"Mainly pump action, looks like a couple of standard single mag hand guns, possibly a few sawn off; nothing that we don't teach the baby Agents to deal with, but more than enough to cause some damage either way. Group's split; I've got three branching out in your direction. Still no sign of our target though."

Phil ducked down behind the tree that he had positioned himself against, mentally cursing anyone he could think of for the direction this mission was taking. Taking a deep breath, he could hear the cracking of twigs coming from Clint's area, the sudden eerie hush that had fallen over the section of forest they were both in, and something felt wrong.

Either they had received dodgy intel off of the mission last week, or…

A rustling in the leaves of the tree just left of his line of vision, way too pronounced and unsubtle to be an animal, caught his attention.

Phil held his breath, feeling the rapid fluttering of his pulse in his throat as the pain in the front of his chest became even more uncomfortable. Just when he was certain that it was his imagination and Clint's reports getting the better of him, a distinctive click hit his ears.

Phil frowned for a moment, trying to work out where it was that he had heard that noise in the near past, before realisation dawned on him and his eyes went wide. That wasn't just any click. That was the sound of a loaded gun being cocked and ready to fire.

Clint wasn't using a gun.

Frantically hoping that Clint had heard the disturbance as well, Phil pressed his fingers to his earpiece, swallowing down the lump that had suddenly appeared in his airways as he tried to remain calm.

"Hawkeye, get out now, your position's been compromised. They've got someone up on your level, it's not safe."

Clint's reply was instantaneous. "Sir, I can't move. I have three males in my immediate vicinity and closing in fast. If my position _has_ been compromised, I've just got to hope that they're a fucking lousy shot. I've lost the other suspects, but they were moving pretty damn quick into your area."

Phil went silent, trying to resist the urge to throw a major scale fit over the circumstances. If there were potential threats heading his way, then he couldn't stay there, but the thick layer of snow meant that wherever he went, he'd effectively be running with a bright neon sign above his head.

Taking a deep breath as he tried to logically work out the best solution to their rapidly growing problem, Phil whispered heatedly into their comm line.

"This whole thing has been a set-up from the start. The target's not here because they know we are."

"Well, glad to know I'm fucking freezing to death for nothing then, and that my only consolation prize is possibly a bullet in the head. I better get a good commendation for all this," Clint retorted indignantly, but Phil was well versed in every mask and persona that Clint possessed to hear the faint tremor of fear lacing his words.

He most certainly wasn't ashamed to admit that he was feeling somewhat afraid now himself, his reputation and position be damned. There was nothing worse than fighting a near invisible enemy that outnumbered you and could out manoeuvre your most highly skilled marksman.

His eyes fixed to the area the sound of the gun cock had come from, Phil wrapped his fingers around his own gun, slowly withdrawing it from his belt. It would only come into play as the last resort for the risk of giving away his own position, but Phil would willingly make himself vulnerable if it meant that his Asset was safe. Sometimes, getting caught up in the crossfire was the only way of handling a situation.

After what seemed like a millennium, and no further movement, Phil leaned back against the tree behind him, loosely holstering his gun, but by no means fully putting it away; he had to be prepared for anything.

"Threat seems to have passed. Keep visuals on the suspects, take any shots you feel necessary."

Phil almost felt like he could visibly see the smirk that he knew would be on Clint's face. "I knew they wouldn't have the balls t-"

An explosion.

The ripple of energy that followed the crackle of a bullet leaving its chamber.

The thundering boom of gunfire ricocheted across the mountain, tearing through the air, and a sudden burst of static was all that remained of Barton's response.

Phil felt like his heart had stopped.

"Hawkeye, report."

Nothing. A sharp pain started to pound in his chest.

"Hawkeye, status report _now_."

Silence still, then finally an answer that made Phil want to be sick.

"I'm sorry, but your little bird can't answer right now. It's just too bad…"

A dark, low growl echoed down the line, and Phil could hear the faintly distant and visceral sound of someone's foot connecting with bare flesh. The snap of branches breaking – at least, Phil fervently hoped those were branches – was followed by the ominous thud that snow makes when something hits it hard, and he prayed to every deity in existence that he wasn't listening to his Specialist falling into the lion's den of hostiles he'd seen before.

A bitter, skin crawling laugh reverberated into his ear.

"See you soon, _Sir…"_

His chest heaving with the alarm bells piercing his skull, Phil barely paid attention to his surroundings anymore; he certainly didn't hear the footsteps getting closer and closer with each passing second as he thought of the fate Clint had fallen into.

Tearing his earpiece out to avoid hearing the voice that was burrowing further and further into his mind, Phil flipped open the emergency comm line, but before he could utter a word, he was on the floor, his vision foggy and pain exploding from the side of his head.

He felt like he was drunk, and very sluggishly realised that the warmth he could feel sliding down his cheek was blood from a deep wound just above his temple. He could make out shadows surrounding him, two sets of arms grabbing his own and roughly hauling him to his feet as a hand appeared at his waist and shoulder, ripping off his holsters and negligently throwing them aside.

He swallowed down the nausea that was beginning to roil in his stomach from the pressure inside his skull and the fear of what had happened to his Agent, before belatedly realising he was staring down the barrel of a rifle.

"I've got him," Phil's disorientated mind could just about make out over the howling of the blasting icy wind that had started to pick up again.

It took him a moment to realise it was the same, insidious tone that had crawled down Clint's earpiece, and Phil briefly struggled against the person holding him. It was brief though; the sheer force of the dizziness that weighted his brain like lead, combined with the gun that was drawn up higher, closing the inches between the metal and Phil's face, meant that he soon gave up on the idea of escape at that moment in time.

"Don't worry, we won't." The beep of a phone call being disconnected seemed to resonate inordinately loud in Phil's head considering the worsening weather.

A few moments later, he felt his head being righted from its slumped position, the noxious presence of sticky hands and sour breath coming within inches of his face.

"Don't worry, you'll see your Hawk again real soon," the oily voice mocked, and Phil had no time to react as one of the men behind him brought the butt of their gun down heavy and hard across his jaw.

He hit the ground with a disgustingly loud thump, dead weight, before two sets of hands tightly wrapped around his ankles and forcefully started dragging his dead weight through the snow back in the direction of the warehouse.

"Oh, little man, we're gonna have some fun with the two of you," the same voice crooned from somewhere above him, and the last thing that went through his mind was_ Clint…Get help… _before he succumbed to the darkness waiting for him.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: So, here's the second part! Hope you all enjoy :)**

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It felt like hours later before Phil could feel any part of his body.

As he rose back through the layers of fog and nausea, he bit his tongue to avoid groaning at the excruciating pressure building up inside his skull. Oh yeah, he thought weakly, that was definitely a concussion.

His eyes fluttering, Phil tried to adjust to the low level of light that penetrated the room he was in, his gaze meeting the stone, cracked ceiling above him as a hard shiver rolled down his spine. He was obviously in one of the warehouses.

One of his arms was underneath his back, the other splayed just above his head; Phil went to lower it down, until the chink of metal hitting metal rang in his ears, and he could no longer hold back his huff of frustration. There was nothing like being handcuffed in these conditions.

Giving another tug to work out the tensile strength of his bond, Phil barely flinched as the cuff dug sharply into his wrists, the bracelet tightening with every movement and slicing into his flesh before a slight bubble of warmth began to pool on the icy coldness of his skin.

Great, he thought, another thing for medical to lecture him over.

At least for once the guys holding him seemed to actually be reasonably competent; there was nothing worse than being unable to escape from suspects who later turned out to be disgustingly amateurish.

As the haze of darkness filtered from his vision, and his eyes gradually adjusted to the combination of pain and blackness, Phil began to scan around the room, never once moving from his position on his back. It looked like a storage room, about the three times his length, maybe three metres across he estimated, and with only a thick reinforced door as a means of escape.

Straining his eyes to look closer, he noticed no handles or locking mechanisms on the sheet of metal; yeah, these were people who definitely knew what they were doing.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself against the bile he could feel crawling up his throat, he started rocking his body weight, trying to roll over onto his side and free the arm trapped beneath him. It took a few minutes; his eyes screwed shut as pain flared up brightly in his chest at the movements, and his head wasn't too happy either, but he eventually managed it, landing on his right side with a grunt as he clenched his fist, trying to get some circulation back into his stiff fingers.

Forcing his eyes back open, Phil froze. Slumped, sitting upright in the corner of the room just out of reach of his hand was Clint; at least Phil hoped it was Clint.

They were hanging rather precariously, like both of their hands shackled above their lulled head were the only things keeping them from hitting the floor with a thump. Their legs were bent awkwardly in front of them, their right ankle looking swollen and violently dislocated from where they'd lost their boot, and as Phil scanned his eyes back up their figure, taking in the ripped and torn SHIELD issue field uniform and the mess of dirty-blonde hair that was strewn across their bruised face, Phil couldn't work out whether to laugh or to cry.

It _was _Clint.

Clint looked like he was still alive, Phil hoping that the slightest raising and lowering of his chest wasn't just a hallucination caused by his concussion. However, before Phil could take relief in that fact, his gaze was immediately drawn to the steady trickle of blood that was winding its way down Clint's bare side.

Tracing the path back up his Assets skin, Phil could make out a deep flesh wound buried deep into Clint's left shoulder that continued to ooze blood whenever Clint took a shallow breath.

Clint had been shot.

Phil cursed; he knew he should've taken out the suspect in the tree above him the moment he saw them. He never should've hesitated, but because he had, his Asset and friend had taken a bullet.

Cold despondency settled in Phil's chest, briefly making it hard to take in any air as the scar tissue left from Loki throbbed; his stubbornness and want to get back into fieldwork before medical were 100% sure he was ready looked like it was going to cost him dearly, and he damned himself for it.

He should've known better.

Closing his eyes for a few moments, Phil went over his training in his head, trying to use it as a way to relax.

First action_: Scan the room for any and all signs of escape or hostility. _

Phil had already done that; whilst they didn't appear to be in any danger, he couldn't guarantee what was waiting and lurking outside that door.

Second action: _Assess your person for any compromising injuries and weapons. _

Well, Phil already knew where his weapons were, so he instead tried to focus on his bodily responses. Definitely a concussion. Wound to the right temple that appeared to be less severe than originally designated. Aching in the joint of his jaw and possible bruising from being hit around the face, but as he manipulated and clenched his teeth, Phil knew that that was nothing more than a trivial ailment.

Working his way systematically down his body, Phil came to the satisfactory judgement that other than a possible slice to his wrist from the handcuffs and a bit of inflamed scar tissue from overexerting himself, there appeared to be nothing else wrong. Taking a steadying breath, Phil made his way down his checklist.

Third action: _Assess any SHIELD operatives within a safe vicinity for compromising injuries and weapons. _

Phil almost gave a bitter laugh at that; he and Clint most definitely weren't in a safe vicinity, and it definitely looked like Clint was in a much worse state than him, but Phil couldn't know for sure unless he was able to wake Clint up.

Glancing around the room, Phil realised he had nothing to hand which he could use to get Clint's attention; there was only the two of them there. Sighing, Phil experimentally shifted his body weight, seeing if there was a way to move closer to his Asset.

Dragging himself across the ground on his side with a quiet hiss of pain, Phil belatedly realised that there was a certain amount of freedom of movement afforded to him by the way he'd been cuffed to the rail above him; it only gave him about a foot to play with as the metal harshly scratched against the rusty rail, but it was more than enough as Phil stretched out his arm, his fingers getting a half decent grip on Clint's thigh.

Exerting just a little bit of pressure that Phil hoped wouldn't cause Clint too many problems if he had already sustained injuries to that area, Phil cleared his throat harshly, his voice ragged and filled with every ounce of authority that he could muster under the circumstances.

"Agent Barton. Agent. _Clint_."

Praying that Clint wouldn't react badly to the wake-up call, Phil dug his fingertips in with as much force as he could; it worked. The prone figure in front of him flinched hard, before letting out a deep groan, Clint's muscles automatically tensing as he started trying to kick his leg out of Phil's grasp, his eyes screwed shut and his breaths becoming so uneven and fast that it seemed Clint was going to hyperventilate.

It made Phil's chest tighten with guilt as he withdrew his hand; Clint's personal files documented every experience in his life, any and all quirks and worrying behaviour, and explicitly mentioned multiple times was that Clint should never be forced awake. The last person who had done that had ended up with three broken fingers and a knife to their throat before Clint recognised that they posed no threat to him.

Phil just hoped he'd be able to get through to Clint, because despite being cuffed and apparently having a dislocated ankle, Phil knew that a restrained, hurt Clint was the most dangerous of them all.

"Clint," Phil whispered fiercely, and Clint's eyes shot open, his pupils so black and dilated that there was no colour in them.

He was panting heavily, and Phil could see the moment panic started to set in as Clint pulled roughly at the handcuffs holding him in place, his actions getting more and more frantic as he fought to get them off, his entire body trembling.

Phil, trying to stay as calm as possible, gently laid his palm against Clint's thigh again, his thumb rubbing soft circles into the rigid muscle as Clint's head snapped around to stare straight at him. Phil knew that Clint wasn't seeing him though; he was staring straight through his handler as Clint struggled worse.

"Agent Barton," Phil remarked quietly, hoping that there was nobody outside the door who could hear that they were now both awake. "Agent Barton, this is Agent Coulson. There is nobody else present; it's just the two of us. Do you know where you are?"

Clint's breaths continued coming thick and fast, but Phil noticed the way that the trembling muscle beneath his fingertips lost some of the tension it had held. It took a couple of minutes, time where Phil watched as the glazed look in Clint's eyes began to dissipate and a little bit of humanity and understanding began to work its way back into his Asset's thought processes.

"I'm in… in a room. W-w-w-warehouse?" Clint heavily stuttered, his voice tight with a mixture of pain, nerves and the cold that was leeching away all of the body heat they both seemed to have.

Phil smiled softly, trying to keep his voice as light and warm as possible in order to reassure Clint.

"That's right. Do you remember exactly what happened to you?"

He watched as Clint rested his head against the stone wall behind him, his entire demeanour beginning to lose the visible nerves and stiffness that Phil knew still had to be bubbling away below the surface.

"I-I was up a tree. You said something 'bout a sniper? I went to aim at one of the guys below me and I got hit fully square in the shoulder."

Phil saw Clint's shoulder automatically rolling as he said it, and Clint failed to hold back a sharp grunt of pain at the movement.

"I went down, managed to stay on my perch, but some guy came up behind me, ripped out my earpiece and kicked me in the face. Snow ain't soft from 30 feet up, Sir," Clint joked faintly, but Phil could see that Clint was trying to do it for his benefit more than his own.

Clint always tried to put Phil at ease whenever something went wrong; Clint said it was because he knew otherwise that Phil would blame himself from Clint's stupid mistakes, and Phil began to wonder when his Asset started to understand him so well. A ripple of pain that Clint couldn't suppress flashed in Clint's eyes, and the stroking of Phil's thumb on his thigh became more insistent and soothing.

"What injuries you got?"

Clint's voice was clearer now, his mind perfectly in tune with the machine that was his body. "Bullet in the shoulder, dislocated ankle, couple of missing teeth and a few cuts and bruises. Oh, and maybe fucking hypothermia, but that one's your fault. Nothing but child's play," Clint inflected humourlessly.

Phil suddenly became aware of the way that Clint's gaze was fixed on him though, filled with concern as his sharp eyes bored straight into the side of Phil's skull. Most other senior Agents were intimidated by the way that Barton stared at them, the way he could become almost all-consuming and downright terrifying when he drilled into them; Phil never was though.

He knew how to read his Specialist. He knew that those intense, emotion filled eyes that no-one else ever saw was the closest Clint would ever get to verbalising his care and concern for his friends.

Phil ducked his head, allowing Clint to get a clean glance at the wound in his temple that had stopped bleeding a while ago.

"I'm fine. Bit of a concussion, but nothing I haven't shaken off before. You still got your knife on you?"

Clint immediately shook his head. "Nah, fucker's stripped off everything."

Phil knew that Clint's observant eyes would already have noticed that the lack of holsters that he had on him meant that Phil's attackers had been just as thorough on him.

"Any way out, you think?"

Clint's voice was starting to take on the slightest rasp, one that suggested his Asset was failing to hide the bone-deep exhaustion and pain he had to be feeling, and Phil knew that Clint had to be getting impatient.

Clint was never the most calm and relaxed captive; he preferred to either beat his escape out of their suspects, or wait until they weren't looking and sneak into the shadows whilst they fought amongst themselves.

Phil went to shake his head, before the sudden disorientating pulse of pressure reminded him of why that wasn't a good idea. "Nothing that I can see at the moment. Door looks like it locks from the outside, pretty thick metal too. We know of at least 6 suspects on site as well, there's no telling who or what they've got out there."

"Great," Clint rolled his eyes, "So what, we're just gonna have to wait it out and hope they just wanted to keep us here for their warmth and hospitality?"

Phil could hear the frustration and irritation that Clint was failing to hold in check, and he spent a few minutes doing nothing more than rubbing his palm up and down Clint's thigh, making sure to watch Clint's face carefully for any sense of discomfort.

"Before I was brought in, I managed to briefly connect with base; providing the weather doesn't get any worse, it should take about 48 hours for Evac to reach us."

Clint just snorted derisively. "And what if we're not here in 48 hours? What if they get bored with us and all that ends up left for Evac to retrieve in 48 hours is some blood, bones and a couple of uniforms, huh?"

"You telling me you couldn't last through a few hours of torture? How did you pass your physicals?"

Phil intended for the comment to be light-hearted and jokey, but the sudden dead glint that flashed through Clint's eyes, the way the marksman seemed to withdraw into himself, made Phil instantly regret it and he cursed himself for his stupidity.

Clint had only just passed his tests for torture, scrapped through the pysch exams, and then spent nearly three days hidden away in the vents.

When Phil had finally been able to coax him out and been able to get Clint to talk, Clint had launched into the messy debacle that was his past; the years of violent abuse and near death experiences at the hands of Trickshot and the other circus runners, his grisly days as a mercenary and the torture he'd endured when caught by the enemy, he'd left no episode unturned, and when he had finally looked up at Phil, tears streaming down his face, Phil had wanted to track down every single ghost from Clint's past and tear them to pieces.

That night may have been nearly 15 years ago, but Phil could remember it vividly.

Since then, any particularly tough missions – ones where Clint was held by hostiles, where he saw Agents killed and scenes of destruction that Clint couldn't stop regardless of how much he tried – had always followed the same routine afterwards.

Phil would usually find Clint either sat on the roof of the Avengers Tower or hidden down in the vents above his office, and Phil would go through every aspect of the mission, trying to make Clint understand that things were never his fault, that there were things he couldn't stop, and offer comfort until Clint – with a glint in his eyes that expressed everything he couldn't put into words – would give him a slight smile and a word of thanks before disappearing back into the world of normality.

Taking a deep breath, Phil gave the top of Clint's thigh a soft squeeze, waiting for Clint to eventually turn and stare directly into his eyes before giving him a look that conveyed every ounce of apology and sympathy he felt rush through him.

"We'll be fine, Clint, I promise."

Their gazes locked for what felt like an eternity, neither of them willing to speak or break the spell of comforting and understanding that had settled around them in the darkness of their cell, when the sudden heavy clang of a key in the lock and the hinges squealing as the door was opened shattered any semblance of peace they'd manage to create.

There were four large shadows standing backlit against the sudden influx of light that entered the room, and both Phil and Clint groaned as their eyes struggled to adjust. Three of the men moved forward towards Phil and Clint, and Phil desperately tried to urge Clint with his eyes not to do anything stupid as their hands were uncuffed from the rail that had held them and they were both roughly hauled to their feet, their arms gripped tightly behind their backs by the men who'd entered.

Phil's head was throbbing so sharply that he was convinced the hostile behind him was the only thing keeping him from falling flat on his face, but his attention was focused on the whimper of pain that Clint released as his damaged shoulder was firmly wrenched up his back, his eyes screwed shut. Phil had had more than enough gunshot wounds to know just how agonising they could be if forced in the wrong way, and he took a deep steadying breath, trying to keep calm enough for the both of them.

Now that they were in the presence of the enemy, Phil could feel all of his training flooding through him, could feel a perverse sense of confidence and authority running through his veins, and Phil defiantly locked his eyes as the man left in the door way sauntered cockily into the room.

"Tsk, tsk. I expected better from an organisation of your calibre," the man stepped closer, reaching out a hand to trail it almost sickeningly soft down the side of Phil's cheek, trying to lull them into a false sense of security before he took a couple of steps to the right and did the same to Clint.

Clint didn't stay as composed as Phil had, and Phil could see the nausea rising in the younger Agent. "And from men of your reputation, I must say I am surprised. I thought I'd be waiting a good deal longer before I got to meet you, _Hawkeye_."

The way the man's voice dropped almost lecherously on Clint's codename, the way his hand lingered underneath Clint's chin, made a haze of red descend over Phil's vision, but he just about managed to keep it in check.

"What the hell do you want with us?" Clint spat out roughly, and Phil was pleased as just how little his tone faltered despite the shudders that ran down his spine.

The grin fell off the man's face, and he dug his fingertips hard into the edge of Clint's jaw, forcing him into silence as he winced.

"I think the better question here is what the hell does SHIELD think they are doing sticking their noses into my business? Putting a bounty on my head?"

As the man took a step back, and Phil was finally able to get a good look at his face, and he immediately knew who they were dealing with.

"I think your business became our business when you started killing our Agents, Cooper," Phil intoned evenly, almost becoming bored with the situation.

He hated when targets started to monologue; it made it more difficult to concentrate on trying to find an escape route out of the warehouse.

Cooper smirked almost victoriously as his gaze kept darting between the two of them.

"It's a shame that you decided that, especially seeing how… useful you're going to be for my business."

Cooper's eyes lay back onto Clint, and Phil could see the way his Asset was struggling not to respond to the glare as his body tensed, his own eyes blazing with anger beneath the confusion and fear.

"We've heard an awful lot about you, Clint Barton," Cooper drawled sadistically, and Clint immediately started to try and fight his way out of the guys grip behind him; he didn't get more than a good couple of shakes and twists out before the third guy in the room stepped forward and drove his fist into Clint's gut, forcing the air out of him as he doubled over weakly, coughing and spluttering.

Phil, to his personal credit, managed to prevent himself from trying to break the goons neck as he stepped back in his direction.

"Yes, the only man in the world who successfully managed to launch a full scale attack on SHIELD headquarters. The only man who nearly caused the whole fortress to fall from the sky. This time however, my organisation has the means to see that assault through; the means to wipe out every SHIELD Agent in the world and then take out the rest of the world's defence systems and tip the balance into all-out nuclear war. There's only one thing I'm missing though."

Cooper took a step closer to both of them, doing a slow circle around their bodies as he continued his narrative; Phil was almost tempted to risk his life just to get the bastard to shut the hell up and stop being so irritating, but he knew better than that.

One of them needed to survive this at least so they could pass on the information being revealed; a sudden pang shot through Phil's stomach, and the way that Clint's eyes fixed almost helplessly on his own told him that Clint knew what he did too. Cooper and his men had no intention of letting either of them go alive.

"Now then," Cooper asked in an overly enthusiastic tone, "which one of you two is going to give me the security override codes? Our Senior field Agent, or our easily manipulated little Hawk?"

Both Clint and Phil let out a sharp gasp as their cuffed arms were wrenched hard up their backs again, the metal slicing into their wrists.

This was by no means the worse interrogation Phil had ever faced; if Phil wasn't so concerned about being cuffed and so heavily outnumbered, he would've laughed straight into Cooper's face, but the tightness in his chest, the deliberately placed bullet in Clint's shoulder, meant that neither one of them was in prime condition to withstand anything severe.

The pressure in his socket continued steadily increasing, and Phil knew that if it carried on much longer, he was looking at least a dislocated shoulder or collarbone to add to his list of things to be hounded over by medical, but he kept silent, his head turning and his eyes instinctively locking with Clint's.

Clint's pupils were heavily dilated again, his breath hissing out between clenched teeth as he clung onto Phil's stare like the lifeline that it was to him. That same eerie peace from before seemed to fall over the two of them, and it absorbed them both to the point that Cooper's voice seemed almost fuzzy to Phil's ears; Phil almost wouldn't have realised he was speaking if he hadn't heard his name fall from the bastard's lips.

"Oh dear Agent Coulson, why you have gone soft, haven't you? I never thought someone like him would be able to get to you, but I guess I was wrong. It would be satisfying to make you scream, to make you pay for killing four of my best men nearly five years ago now and for daring to get into my business, but…"

Cooper's voice had taken on a distinctly hard and sinister tone, and Phil barely had a second to register the underline threat in his words before Clint was grabbed.

Clint didn't even get the chance to kick out against the man who'd touched him before, like Phil himself earlier, he was pistol whipped straight across the face, dropping to his knees on the floor like a stone as blood poured from his nose and mouth like water.

Cooper just smiled with vicious pleasure as Clint, too dazed to put up any real resistance, was pulled back to his feet before being forced through the door by the men holding him, his weak efforts to stop nothing more than futile as he disappeared from sight.

"I think it would be more satisfying to watch you break. And even if you don't, he will, Coulson."

"Wait! Let the fuck go of him, what do you-"

Phil's protestations and pleas fell on deaf ears as he was kneed in the stomach before being forced back over to the rail that held him before.

He was more alert and hyped up than Clint was though, and it took two stiff punches to the face before Phil collapsed to the floor beneath him and his arm was forced into position above his head, much like the way Clint had been cuffed when he'd first woken up.

Only one of wrists had been bound though, and Phil couldn't go down without a struggle, lashing out hard against the guy who had held him until he was just out of arms reach and Phil turned to a string of verbal abuse instead.

After a couple of moments, it was just Phil and Cooper left in the room, and Phil glared up at the arms dealer, ignoring the blood that was beginning to seep from his original head wound once more; if looks could kill, then Cooper would've been dead where he stood, but the man just smiled sickeningly sweet at Phil.

"Don't worry Coulson, your little Hawk will be back soon, just not looking so pretty anymore."

As Cooper turned his back and walked out the room, slamming the door shut and firmly locking it, Phil swallowed down the frustration and anger that was fiercely burning at the back of his throat when he heard a pained scream echoing from somewhere else in the building, trying to convert all of that fury into something that might help him and Clint get out of this situation before both of them ended up dead.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: So, here's the next part for you all! Word of warning, there's lots of implied and graphic violence in this scene, so if you don't like, don't say you weren't warned!**

* * *

Phil had been half asleep up against the wall, his body violently shivering as the temperature outside continued to get colder and the throbbing in his head making him feel like he was constantly on the verge of being aggressively ill, when the door had reopened for the first time.

He wasn't entirely sure what to expect; the agonised noises and cries of pain he could vividly hear coming from behind the walls had gradually quietened down to nothing as time had pushed on, but he didn't know what that meant for Clint. He very quickly found out though, as the Agent was carelessly dragged back into their little cell and dumped on the floor in a heap.

The guy who'd brought him back leaned over Clint's body menacingly, and Phil couldn't miss the way that Clint's entire body froze and began to tremble as he whispered something into Clint's ear before stalking off and slamming the door shut behind them once more.

Phil's whole existence narrowed down to Clint's violently shaking form, the cuts and welts that covered his mottled skin, the further deformity of his already dislocated right ankle, and the distressing sound of Clint choking on the sobs that were forcibly clawing their way out of his throat. Clint's hands were still tightly handcuffed behind his back, and the thumb on his drawing hand was bent at a crooked angle, but at least Clint was no longer chained to the wall.

"Clint," Phil whispered softly, and Phil felt like his heart had seized in his chest when Clint dared to gaze at him, dried blood on his lips, his eyes blackened, and every wall the archer had ever constructed lying broken on the floor just like he was.

Clint looked for the entire world like a child, beaten and ruined, and as Phil tentatively reached out his free hand towards the Agent, trying not to startle Clint in any way, Clint immediately latched onto it.

Trying to restrain his gasps of pain as he slowly crawled across the hard, dusty floor, Clint twisted his body and finally slumped in a collapsed heap of exhaustion and agony over Phil's thigh, his face pressed tightly into the scratchy material of Phil's torn suit trousers as he began to near hyperventilate.

Phil's hand immediately came to rest on the back of Clint's neck, trying to guiltily ignore the flinch that Clint startled out of himself as he gently caressed the sweat dampened hairline, brushing his fingers softly through his Asset's hair; he tried to justify the intimacy of the contact by kidding himself into believing that he was checking for any head injuries that Clint could've received, but he knew it was really because the sight of Clint looking and sounding so vulnerable in his presence made his stomach knot.

Clint obviously didn't care; his face just buried deeper into Phil's leg as he tried to search for the safety and comfort that he desperately needed. There were a thousand and one questions vying for attention in Phil's mind – _what did they do to you? Did you tell them anything? What did that man say to you? How can I make it better? _– but Phil knew he couldn't ask them.

Clint's entire demeanour screamed for the silence, screamed for a few moments of peace before his life spiralled out of control again, and Phil couldn't bring himself to make Clint worse. Times like this, Phil couldn't help but hate that overwhelming SHIELD bred urge to burst into professionalism, to assess the situation and cultivate contingency plans for all case scenarios, even if it involved potentially abandoning an Agent.

Even the thought that Clint could be compromised was enough to make him sick; not because of the professional voice that recited rules and regulations for these sorts of things, but because this was _Clint_.

This was the irritating, childish, unprofessional archer who'd managed to worm his way into Phil's affections and care. The closed off, moody, difficult to handle Agent who was more than willing to let Phil see through the damage that had been inflicted. The friend who Phil couldn't help but admit made his day just that little bit more bearable with his jokes and presence. Even trying to think of it on the most distant levels as the handler of a competent, ranking Asset - desperately trying not to think of Clint as the haunted young man who'd given Phil his trust and his friendship despite the walls and barriers he erected to the rest of the world - Phil couldn't stand the idea that Clint was hurt in his protection.

The fact that Clint was willing to accept any sort of physical contact or comfort in his state was good enough for Phil, and he wasn't willing to break the fragile equilibrium that had fallen over them.

Clint never allowed anyone to touch him when he was hurt; medical and half of the senior Agents wisely stayed at arm's length until the archer had calmed down, and only Natasha had dared get into his personal space a couple of times before when he was injured and angry. That had ended in a black eye and Clint getting sedated from a distance of 12 feet by one of his own tranquiliser darts until medical could restrain him.

Having Clint draped across his legs, his face buried in Phil's thigh and Phil's hand running through his hair as Clint openly sobbed against him, was something that Phil definitely wasn't used to, but he wasn't going to turn his Asset away now because of how out of character it was.

If anything, it made him want to pull Clint into him further and shield him from anything else Cooper and his men could do to him.

Phil was almost desperately possessive of the young man; it had long been a running joke around HQ about how Phil had managed to tame the untameable, but seeing Clint like this was enough to make Phil want to kill.

Taking a deep breath and violently stamping down the satisfying thoughts of breaking every single one of their necks the second he was free, Phil continued his soothing ministrations against the crown of Clint's head, not saying anything when the Specialist moved in closer, winding his legs around Phil's knee and tightening his grip.

If Clint was being this clingy, Phil thought, then whatever they had done or said to him had obviously visibly gotten to him.

Hearing Clint's sobs break into deep, ragged breaths, his entire body trembling uncontrollably against Phil's, Phil could feel that overwhelming urge to ask Clint everything that was screaming to be asked, but even as the faintest consideration flitted through his mind, he could feel Clint's body tense once more.

"Please…" he choked brokenly almost as if he had heard Phil's thoughts, his voice muffled against Phil's leg. "Please don't… I can't…"

Phil's heart plummeted to his feet, and he had to blink to force back the tears that were threatening to build at the begging in his tone. Letting out a sigh, Phil stroked his hand softly down the side of Clint's head, encouraging him to cradle his face against Phil's hip as Phil reached down to start rubbing small circles into the top of his back.

It was almost like comforting a child, Phil thought sadly, but after everything that Clint had been through over the last couple of hours – hell, over his entire life – Phil wasn't, couldn't, begrudge him of such little forms of comfort.

His own voice soft and roughened with pain and emotion that Phil would normally never let anyone else hear, Phil let his hand stop its movements and just rest on Clint's back as he felt the younger man relax further into him.

"Don't worry, Clint. I won't."

After what felt like hours of silence and raspy breaths echoing around the room – Phil couldn't tell how long it had truly been – Clint had fallen into a fitful sleep, his grip around Phil never once wavering despite the fresh tears that fell down his face, and Phil, his thumb tracing patterns only he could see into the soft flesh of Clint's throat, finally succumbed to his own exhaustion.

It was sometime later when Phil was roughly woken with a start by the sound of Clint struggling, his hoarse screams of verbal abuse and pleading shaking Phil to the core as he was dragged back into reality.

He instantly recognised the same man who'd forcibly thrown Clint back into their cell roughly yanking Clint to his feet, the archer giving out a yelp of pain as he was forced to support himself on his dislocated ankle. When Clint tried to kick out, his limbs horribly uncoordinated and stiff, one of the larger of the group pulled a taser out of his pocket and pressed it hard against the edge of Clint's gunshot wound.

The blood-curdling cry that Clint let out as he slumped, near unconscious, into the arms of the man from before, was enough to make Phil feel sick as he watched Clint disappear once more. As the group turned into the corridor, the door frame was filled by the sight of Cooper, his arms folded across his chest and a sick smirk painted on his face.

"You trained him well, Coulson," his bland tone of his words almost made it seem like he was discussing the sports results, but Phil could hear the undercurrents beneath it, and it made him ache to get his hands on the bastard. "It's going to take a lot to make him sing. Don't worry though; we're very… thorough with our methods."

As the door slammed shut for the second time, Phil desperately hoped that his call for help before he'd been caught had gone through; he clung onto the hope that both Clint and he would soon be back at base, both of them being fussed over by the medics but otherwise alive and triumphant, but the longer the night drew on, the more that hope began to seem childish.

It became a disturbing routine after that first session; Clint would be gone for what seemed like forever – the length of time appeared to be indiscriminate depending on what torture Cooper and his men decided to try that time – before being thrown back at his feet in a broken heap.

The same man from before would continually accompany him, initially just whispering threats in Clint's ear until after the fourth time Clint was returned and it graduated into a full-on beating in front of Phil; sometimes, Phil would get a hit or two for his troubles, but more often than not, he was forced to watch helplessly, struggling violently against his bonds as his Asset was brutalised, bloodied and bruised before being left again to wait it out until the next time Cooper tried to get him to break.

Every time, Phil would pause until the door had been locked before extending his hand out again, letting Clint take whatever solace it was that he needed in the familiar, soothing touch.

Sometimes, Phil would whisper nonsensical nothings into the archer's ear as Clint sobbed; sometimes, Phil would sit in silence, a million and one questions demanding to be asked as he uncovered new, more stomach clenching injuries and disfigurements.

Clint never said a word.

After the eighth time, Clint didn't cry anymore either, all the fight draining out of him as he clung to Phil like his handler was the only thing he had left, his bloodshot and haunted eyes telling Phil everything that Clint couldn't verbalise. Phil let out a wavering sigh, remembering the feeling of Clint's hand intertwined with his own.

The last session had been rough; every finger on Clint's drawing hand had been snapped like twigs, blisters and deep burn marks crisscrossed his back from what like boiling hot water and capsicum, several careless stab wounds ran up his arms indicated attempts at drugging, and the skin on the sole of his left foot had practically been flayed off, the flesh ribboned and black.

Still, there was never any indication to say whether or not Clint had caved in; Phil, even though the professional in him disapproved vehemently, wouldn't have blamed Clint if he had. This had crossed the boundary from torture into a prolonged execution; not even Phil could've withstood that for as long as the Specialist had.

As it was, he knew Clint wouldn't be able to hold out much longer. His skin was slick with sweat, his eyes feverish and dead as he shook near uncontrollably all the time. The gunshot wound in his shoulder, half burned from the taser, was showing signs of infection if the angry colour and smell was anything to go by. Every deep breath was now followed by the hacking up of blood and agonising cramps that had the Agent whimpering in pain and threatening to break Phil's own fingers from the grip Clint had on them.

When he'd been returned the last time, Clint had fitted for what had to be close to a full five minutes. The human body just wasn't built to take this kind of abuse, especially one as fragile as Clint's was. Phil wasn't sure what else Cooper's men would be able to do to him, but he couldn't help but wince as he imagined the abundance of methods that they possible had at their disposal.

Taking a deep breath, Phil let it out steadily through gritted teeth as he tried to work his wrist free again. He'd been trying solidly for the last two sessions, figuring that he'd rather go down with a fight than just sit there waiting to be read his last rites and led to the gallows.

With one hand loose, it wasn't as difficult as it could've been, but Phil still wasn't close to succeeding; the stickiness of the blood and sweat dripping down his arm from his wrist was a testament to how much he'd tried.

It was possible, he'd deduced that much, but he just couldn't relax his hand enough to be able to slip it from the cuff. He'd dislocated his thumb on his last attempt, but even that didn't seem like it was going to help as he pulled down as hard as he could, feeling the muscles in his wrist pop and strain at the pressure.

Humourlessly deciding that he was going to make this a mandatory skill for every new recruit to learn, Phil let out a grunt as he felt the skin scratching against the rusted metal, but pushed through the pain.

After what felt like an eternity, Phil was able to manoeuvre the cuff down to the bottom joint of his thumb, but before he could go any further, he was thwarted by the arrival of Clint, and he tried not to curse at the state he was in.

The man holding him up gave Phil a lecherous smile, his lips dripping with malevolence as he pulled Clint across the room before dropping him unceremoniously across Phil's outstretched thighs, giving Phil a wink as he took a quick step back to avoid Phil's free hand connecting with his face.

"Now I know why you keep the slut around, Coulson," the guy's voice dropped maliciously, his mouth almost watering as it scanned slowly and methodically up Clint's nearly naked figure, and Phil saw red.

"What the hell did you bastards do to him?"

The man, to his credit, wasn't intimidated by Phil's anger; he just gave a chuckle the made Phil's skin crawl as he started walking back towards the door.

"Nothing that he didn't… beg for, isn't that right, _Hawkeye_? Don't worry though, we'll be back to finish what we started before you even miss us."

The moment the door was locked, Clint immediately became hysterical, unable to catch his breath as his body shook so violently that Phil was convinced he was fitting again; the sound of Clint's raw crying, the profuse tears that Phil could feel soaking through his trousers, made Phil's heart splinter in his chest as he instantly brought his free hand down to stroke down Clint's heavily lacerated and burnt back, trying to supress his guilt and fury at the flinch Clint wearily gave.

"Oh Clint, what have they done to you?"

His voice sounded old and ragged to his own ears, and he found himself unable to hold back the tears threatening to fall again as Clint wept harder.

"I can't… I can't…"

Phil softly dragged his fingers up Clint's spine to trace the new bruise that had appeared around his neck, and he was taken aback when Clint suddenly turned to look up at him, his tone frantic and pained.

"I can't let them know the truth." The strength of emotion behind Clint's admission stopped Phil's fingers in their tracks as Clint sobbed harder. "They can't know that I-I-I- don't…"

"Don't what, Clint?" Phil's tone was taut with fear and concern, his voice almost whispery as he failed to swallow down the lump throbbing in his chest.

"Selvig knew them, he-he-he programmed the override…"

As Clint's words began to run together, Phil froze, his entire body stiffening as he worked out where Clint's frantic rambling was heading. "Oh no, Clint, please tell me you're lying."

Clint's head faintly rocked against Phil's leg, and Phil felt like he was going to be sick.

"I don't know them, I don't know the codes. I never knew them, but Cooper, Cooper thinks I do and he won't stop, he won't stop, but… but…" Phil felt the tears finally bubble over he cupped his shaking hand against Clint's cheek. "I can't let them hurt you, they're going to kill you if they know, and I can't lose you again!"

The sudden power and heart-breaking honesty behind Clint's words was stunning, and Phil was caught firmly between pride, disbelief and an all-consuming agony that threatened to break him.

The only reason Clint was being tortured was to protect him; Clint, who was haunted by a past full of abuse and violence, was willing to tear open every single one of those horrific wounds and memories if it meant that Phil didn't get a finger laid on him.

Phil was the reason that Clint was withstanding every moment of hell, and Phil almost couldn't take it.

"Clint, I can't…"

Clint turned his devastating eyes on Phil's, and Phil fell silent, unable to speak against the desperate hopelessness that shone helplessly back up at him.

"I love you."

Phil was rendered dumbstruck at what had been whispered.

Years of flirting, of secret smiles and late night coffee runs; it had seemed so natural. Phil couldn't begin to imagine the idea that all of those moments had built up until the friendship they shared had apparently grown into something more for Clint.

Phil felt a painful throb in his chest. Clint Barton; the infamous, insubordinate, smart mouthed marksman who refused to admit any kind of emotions or hint of trust for fear of it being turned against him... Loved him?

It was impossible to believe.

Yet Phil knew he had no choice but to believe it.

The statement was more full of fear and self-loathing than anything else Phil had heard Clint utter since they'd been captured as Clint buried his face back into Phil's leg, near hyperventilating as the sobs started once more.

Those three simple words, those three beautiful, heart-breaking words falling from the lips of his friend cut Phil down to the bone. _Why now? _Phil thought sadly. _Why say it now? _His thumb softly brushing across the curve of Clint's cheek, Phil instinctively knew why it had to be now though.

Clint was obviously terrified that he was going to die, and Clint was never the sort of man to hold all the cards close to his chest when he thought the game was up.

Caressing the archer's features, Phil felt the way Clint tried to suddenly shrug Phil's hand away, and confusion crossed Phil's face for a few moments. This had been the first time since they'd been captured so many hours beforehand that Clint had refused Phil's touch, and in the wake of his confession, Phil couldn't understand why.

He went to open his mouth, to summon up the courage to ask why, but before he could, the door was slammed open hard, both Clint and Phil jumping out of their skins as Cooper came marching in, the cocky grin that had previously graced his face replaced with a look of impatience and anger as he stalked up to Clint.

Before Phil could react, a fist had wound itself in Clint's hair, roughly pulling him up onto his knees before he was viciously hit across the jaw by the gun that Phil had failed to notice.

His pulse skipped a beat, and Phil struggled not to choke on the air that left his lungs in a woosh as Cooper dragged Clint back up only to hit him again. Clint was slumped precariously, unable or unwilling to defend himself any further as Cooper strode over and drove his fist into Clint's gut, ignoring Phil's pleas to stop.

"I was willing to be tolerant," Cooper spat out venomously, his eyes blazing with deadly intent as he pulled a needle out from the back pocket of his jeans, waiting for Clint's head to lull back and expose his throat before forcibly stabbing the syringe into Clint's neck and releasing the silvery white tinged liquid.

"I was hoping that you'd play nice like the fucking little bastard you are, but you've tested my patience long enough."

Phil's eyes widened, and Cooper obviously saw this as he threw the now empty syringe at Phil. Concentrated Palladium Chloride. Phil renewed his fierce struggle to free his wrist, panic setting in as Clint gave out a groan, falling into a heap on the floor.

Flicking the safety catch off, Cooper kicked Clint onto his side facing Phil, resting the barrel of the gun against Clint's temple with enough force to show he was serious.

"Now, you will tell me those security codes. You refuse, Barton, and I'll make you watch as I put a bullet straight between your precious handler's eyes. Tick tock, little Hawk, because your time is running out."

Phil watched as Clint gasped for breath, his body convulsing as he desperately fought for air; his black eyes were firmly locked on Phil's, pleading for something, anything, but before Phil could say a word, one of Cooper's men ran into the room.

"Sir, we're under attack. SHIELD. We can't hold them out much longer."

The man's words had a sense of urgency to them, and through the bubble of fear that had settled around Phil's head, he could hear the sound of gunshots and explosions coming from deep inside the warehouse.

He smiled wearily for a moment; he knew they'd come to get them.

However, the deep rage that fell across Cooper's face at the news was one that terrified Phil, and he flinched violently as Cooper turned and callously put three bullets into the unfortunate bearer of bad news, not a shred of remorse or emotion on his face.

When he glared across the room at Phil, all sense of composure had left him; he stepped over Clint, coming up on Phil fast before unleashing a flurry of fists and kicks against him, many of them missing as the arms dealer was overcome with anger.

Curling up to defend himself as best as he could, Phil took a deep breath before yanking down on the cuffs with as much strength as he had left. His thumb gave out, twisting even more awkwardly than it already had as Phil finally managed to free himself of the wretched things, and a surge of adrenaline and red mist overwhelmed him as he tackled Cooper to the ground, the gun sliding just out of reach as they both wrestled for control.

The footsteps were getting louder, the voices clearer, and Phil knew he only had to hold Cooper off for a couple more minutes at most, landing a well-aimed punch at Cooper's nose as he madly scrambled for the gun.

However, just as he managed to brush the butt, Cooper took him off guard, clocking him with a stiff fist across the face that left Phil's ears ringing as Phil was forced on his back, the gun pressed against his forehead and Cooper looking down at him with a sick smile.

Phil's hands, although finally free from the cuffs, were trapped beneath his back, and he felt his chest tighten at the realisation that he probably wasn't going to survive a couple more minutes.

Cooper's finger looped around the trigger, but before he had the chance to pull it, Cooper was sent flying.

Pushing himself shakily to his feet, Phil almost collapsed straight back onto the floor when he saw Clint, his eyes wild and blood running from his mouth, desperately fighting with Cooper for control.

It took mere seconds, the gun constantly being tilted between Clint and Cooper's chests as they each tried to overpower the other, before the sudden explosion of a gunshot echoed around the room, the gun slipping out of both their hands and blood immediately pooling on the floor beneath them as a dozen SHIELD operatives, all dressed in black and armed to the teeth stormed the room.

Both Clint and Cooper's unmoving bodies were surrounded, and Phil dropped to his knees when he felt a hand against his shoulder, trying to support him. He didn't recognise the figure that was trying to get him to answer their questions whilst simultaneously screaming for medical assistance; his entire world had come down to the sight of Clint being pulled off of Cooper's body, of the blood that Phil couldn't identify that painted Clint's skin.

Clint's eyes briefly met his before they rolled back in his head and he fell into unconsciousness, immediately collapsing into a violent fit; his skin was paper white, his lips tinged a faint inky green from the insidious poison in his system, and the instantaneous burst of activity surrounding Clint's prone figure was enough to tell Phil that it was serious.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a large shadow advance towards Cooper, roughly kicking him onto his front with the toe of their boot before withdrawing a pistol from inside their coat and firing it straight at his head.

At the sound, the rest of reality suddenly broke through the haze of fog that clouded Phil's vision, and he instantly recognised Fury's imposing figure bend down in front of him, gently gripping his chin.

He saw the flash of red, white and blue giving orders from within the centre of the mass huddled over Clint's fitting body; he heard the desperate whispering of Russian endearments and the booming voice that cursed in Asgardian.

He was abruptly aware that he was hyperventilating, the pain in his head and his chest reaching fever pitch as he stared straight through Fury, trying to get any indication of Clint's obviously severe condition.

"Phil," Fury's voice called, strong and authoritative and enough to remind Phil of who he was and what he was doing, "Phil, it's over. All targets have been taken down, the perimeter's secure, and Cooper's nuclear stockpile and documents have all been destroyed. You've done what you set out to do, just relax and take a deep breath because I do not want to be carrying your ass out of here."

Phil couldn't help the weak smile that he gave, but both him and Fury knew his heart wasn't in it as he watched Rogers pick up Clint's body – was it even a rescue effort anymore, or just a body extraction? Phil thought sickeningly – and carry him through the maze of rooms and corridors towards the Quinjet running outside.

A small cluster of medics now surrounded Phil's adrenaline and panic shaken form, every single pain and hit he'd endured coming back tenfold now that the danger was finally over and threatening to make him claw off his skin.

Suddenly, all he could see and hear in his head was Clint's broken murmur of "I love you," the pained adoration in his eyes as he'd waited for his death to come so that he could save Phil, the sudden withdrawal as Phil had found himself unable to respond to Clint's confession and the archer had shut himself off... Shit.

"Mission accomplished, Agent," Fury whispered respectfully, and the all-consuming guilt and agony Phil felt overwhelmed him; Phil had passed out before he'd even hit the floor, the only thoughts revolving through his shattered mind that of grief and sorrow at Clint's willing decision to sacrifice his life for the good of Phil's.

_Oh Clint, I'm so sorry… _


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: So, yeah, I was supposed to update this earlier, but I got swept away under the tide of college exams and revision that demanded my attention instead. Oh well, here's the next part for you all, I hope you enjoy it :)**

* * *

The next time Phil became aware of his surroundings, he didn't think he'd ever been so glad to wake up in SHIELD medical.

It had taken a while for him to groggily rise up through the levels of consciousness, the throbbing in his skull almost making him falter at least a dozen times. He hadn't even opened his eyes yet, and he could already see the flashes of colours in his mind spinning off kilter at an incredible pace; the faint noises that Phil thought he could make out were distorted, like he was horrifically drunk, and Phil was barely able to hold back the bile roiling in his stomach as those muffles and whispers became louder and louder, pounding his sensitive ears.

His throat felt like he had swallowed glass, his skin felt raw and rough, and Phil felt a brief bubble of panic breach through his logic when he considered the possibility that he wasn't actually at base, but that he'd somehow hallucinated the entire rescue and was still trapped in that hell hole.

Tension began to thrum through his body – the body that felt strangely cold and impersonal beneath the layer of warmth that covered him – and Phil could feel his heart increasing its pace; almost simultaneously, the piercing beeps that accompanied his anxiety, getting more and more urgent as his dread seemed to spike, broke through the last filmy haze of darkness and Phil's eyes snapped open.

He groaned at the influx of light that burned his vision, his head spinning, but as the sound of faint voices caught up with the speed of Phil's reality, aligning his perception for the first time since Clint and he had been captured, Phil felt that fear immediately disappear.

These white walls, this light, the recognisable smell of bleach and nauseatingly cheap coffee, this was safety, and Phil knew that he had made it out the other side.

Sinking back deeply into the crisply starched pillows and sheets beneath him – after however long lying on stone, he was never going to complain about an uncomfortable bed in his life again – Phil took a deep breath, trying to take an inventory of his own condition.

His right wrist was completely immobile, and as he blinked away the blurriness, finally managing to move his head without fear of vomiting, he noticed the thick, white plaster cast that encased from about half way down his forearm to the bottom of his fingers and up above the second joint of his thumb.

Huh, he figured, he guessed those handcuffs were pretty damn solid after all, and he almost gave in to his desire to smile at his successful escape, but he managed to resist. Lifting up his left hand instead, Phil held it above his face, twisting and turning it carefully so as not to tangle the wires and tubes that he could see coming out the back of it, before gently prodding at the side of his head.

He could feel a small patch just above his temple, and the tell-tale bump of stitches beneath it, but he counted himself lucky that it obviously hadn't been a bad wound; even small victories were victories nonetheless. Working his way from his head to his feet, flexing his fingers and toes, rolling the joints of his jaw and shoulders, and examining every sign of discolouration and sutures, Phil felt reasonably satisfied with the turn of events.

Sure, his wrist was fucked, and his right shoulder didn't seem to be in much better condition, but at least he was still alive…

A hard lump stuck at the back of his throat, and Phil could feel tears spring up behind the dryness that stung his vision.

Clint.

The last thing Phil could remember was the sight of Clint staring deeply into his eyes, defeated, battered, and trying to convey everything that Clint had been unable to put into words before his body had caved into the effects of the torture and poison that had destroyed him piece by piece so that Phil stood a chance of survival.

Phil felt his chest tighten, his stomach clenching into knots as he heard the beeps begin to pick up speed again; for all he knew, Clint could've succeeded. Clint could be dead, and it would be all his fault.

And over what?

Some stupid security codes and a psychopath who thought that Clint was still compromised from Loki's control.

Phil swallowed thickly, weakly clasping his fist against his lips in an attempt to supress the sob that Phil could feel slowly but surely threading its way to release. His hand was shaking violently, his breaths ragged and uneven, but before Phil had the chance to give in to the panic attack that was waiting to happen, the door to his room was opened.

For a split second, Phil's mind conjured up an image of the warehouse and Clint, waiting to be thrown at his feet after another session of suffering by one of Cooper's men that Phil had been helpless to stop, but it was just Fury; the memory seemed to splinter apart like an old reel of movie footage, and Phil couldn't work out whether to laugh or cry as he came back to himself.

Fury, for the most part, seemed unperturbed by Phil's mild meltdown, and respectfully closed the door behind him.

"At ease, Agent," he intoned, the concern and sympathy in his voice not quite masked by the authority of his words as he crossed the room, taking one of the chairs from the foot of the bed and drawing himself up to Phil's left hand side.

There seemed to be a certain lack of confidence in Fury's appearance, his shoulders just slightly hunched down from their normally strict position, but the familiarity of the command meant that Phil couldn't help but obey it, finding comfort in the sense of normality it imparted in its wake.

Fury sat in silence as Phil tried to calm himself, just about managing to keep his panic attack under wraps as he slumped backwards against the pillow, exhausted and emotionally numb as he wearily turned his head to look at Fury. Fury looked to be in a state of contemplation as he reached out for the container of ice chips that sat on the table behind him, his own eye fixed to the plastic cup as he softly rattled it in his hand.

"You went off the grid for three days, Phil," Fury remarked blandly, plucking one of the chunks out before offering it up to Phil.

Thrown out, yet somewhat amused by the idea of Fury playing nurse for him, Phil caught the proffered ice carefully between his lips, savouring the dampness.

"Do you know how much coffee I went through trying to find your stupid ass in those Godforsaken mountains for three damn days?"

Phil couldn't supress the weak smile.

"Sorry boss," he whispered haggardly, his voice rough and scratchy from disuse and pain.

Fury raised his eyebrow, giving him one of those looks that told Phil he obviously wasn't believed, and Phil's lips curled up just a touch more around the ice.

"You'll be sorry when I make you fill out all the paperwork for the headache you gave me."

Phil chuckled pathetically, a shadow of its normal power and enjoyment, before he broke off into a coughing fit that left his chest on fire and the previous smile faltering. Fury toyed with another piece of ice, placing the cup back on the table as he forced Phil to accept it begrudgingly.

Phil might have the reputation as the biggest badass to walk the Helicarrier, but he was probably about a big of fan of medical as Clint was, and that was saying something.

As the thought of the archer filled Phil's mind again, Phil struggled to breathe, his heart skipping numerous beats as he glanced over at the imposing figure next to him.

"Clint?"

He mustered the courage to ask after what felt like hours of nothing, and the silence that followed was suffocating. Fury let out a deep breath, not able to look Phil in the eyes, and Phil immediately felt like he was going to be violently ill until Fury sat up a little bit straighter.

"He's alive for the moment," and the relief that exploded through Phil almost made him pass out again as the tears streaked down his pale, bruised face.

Fury's eyes seemed to soften at Phil's reaction, a bittersweet smile flashing across his otherwise tense features.

"If it weren't for Stark and the nifty little bit of tech he'd managed to whip up to get all that shit out of his blood though, he would've been called before he'd even reached base."

The admission was like a slap around the face, and Phil could feel that same overwhelming guilt from before begin to eat away at him.

"How… How bad as he?"

Fury let out another sigh, and Phil found it disconcerting to hear coming from a man who was famous for his wise-cracks and no nonsense attitude.

"Fucking bad," Fury remarked bluntly. "Flat-lined twice. That Palladium did a number on him. Didn't help either that they shot him up with some tranqs and psychotropics he couldn't handle."

Phil's eyes dropped down to gaze intently at the plainness of the sheets beneath him; he didn't think he'd be able to temper the gamut of emotions ripping through him if he had to continue staring into Fury's all-knowing eye.

"Two gunshot wounds, one from a rifle into his shoulder that medical found had also been dislocated, and one in the abdomen from a handgun at point blank range. Eight of his fingers broken, four ribs broken and six cracked, his right ankle broken and dislocated, jaw dislocated, nose broken, two teeth completely knocked out of mouth and four that are cracked; you name it and it's probably broken,"

Fury remarked humourlessly, a glint in his eye that spoke of happier missions when Clint had joked about keeping tally against the other Agents with his visits to medical for breaks and fractures during moments of stupidity.

"Third degree burns on his back, soles of his feet practically flayed down to the bone, cuts, bruises, electrical scars, I think those bastards pulled nearly every stunt from their bag of tricks."

Fury's voice dropped a few octaves, his fingers tapping some delicate rhythm against the fabric of the chair as he vehemently refused to look at Phil.

"There's also some evidence of… internal injuries. The medics can't rule out the possibility of rape until Agent Barton is conscious and willing to provide his version of events."

Phil's jaw locked, the vivid, disgusting drawls of Cooper's lackey and the malevolent whisper of _'now I know why you keep the slut around, Coulson,' _making him see red as he clenched his fist so tightly that he left crescents in his palm.

Before he could do anything though, Phil watched as Fury noticeably changed from a concerned friend into the professional he was, clearing his throat roughly as he addressed Phil, unaware of the murderous thoughts he'd just interrupted.

"Agent Coulson, I apologise for this, but you know the drill," Fury pressed calmly, and Phil let out a sigh, knowing exactly what was about to happen as Fury started to run through the debriefing procedure, asking questions that left Phil uncomfortable and on edge as they tried to piece together the events of the previous 81 hours between Phil and Clint arriving on site for the mission and Phil waking up in SHIELD medical.

It turned out that Phil had been right in his suspicions about the integrity of the intel; the whole venue for the previous week's undercover op had been bugged. Apparently, Cooper had heard about the possibility of an infiltration from a HYDRA source who'd had dealings with Phil and some of the other senior Agents before; Cooper and his team had managed to hack into some of the low level security clearances in one of SHIELD's external databanks.

When they realised that Phil and Clint had been the same two people to launch a strike against them five years previously – _"Remember Istanbul? Well, apparently, he did pretty damn well too"_ – that had taken out four of their major players, "_well_," Fury had frowned, "_they weren't going to let a chance for some payback just go strolling past_."

Once Fury had supplied Phil with the background information, it was Phil's turn to tell Fury all the grisly details. He was proud of the way he'd managed to keep himself under control as he told Fury everything; the initial compromise of their positions and the attempted abortion of the mission, Cooper's plans for a new world war three, the way that Phil had just been left cuffed to a rusty rail in a stony cell to endure Clint's begs and screams of agony…

Phil had had to pause at this point, his hand visibly trembling and his words thick and frantic as he relived the vile flashbacks again and again; Fury actually looked affected himself, reaching out to gently clap a hand over the knee closest to him in a show of support and understanding.

If Phil hadn't felt like he was being broken down into pieces, he would've made more than enough wise-cracks and blackmail material to make Clint howl with laughter the next time he saw him, but Phil appreciated the gesture.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he'd continued relaying the conditions that Clint was returned in after every prolonged episode of torture and the brief ways in which Phil was able to assess his wellbeing, the final beating and how Phil had been able to break out of his handcuffs to take down Cooper.

Fury had properly grinned at that, and definitely agreed to Phil's idea that it should become part of mandatory field training, but the smile had quickly dropped when Phil described the final tousle for the gun before SHIELD had stormed the room.

"Cooper must've pulled the trigger on Barton when he knew that he had lost. That definitely explains the angle and the depth of entry on the bullet that the medics had to dig out of his stomach. Barton's lucky that he didn't end up with a hole in anything major, otherwise this would be a completely different type of debrief right now."

Phil had swallowed soberly at that, closing his eyes against the wave of emotion he felt try to overtake him. There was silence for a few minutes as Fury scribbled down the details, before going back and asking Phil to elaborate on certain aspects of his narrative, or to try and corroborate Clint's physical condition with the breaks between sessions so that medical had a good idea as to what had been damaged when.

Despite how much it pained him, Phil refused to keep anything secret from Fury – well, anything except one deliberate omission that Phil felt Fury didn't need to know. Phil didn't really think that the Director of SHIELD really needed to know that when Clint was convinced he was going to die saving Phil's life he'd told Phil that he loved him.

Even as Phil easily drew back up the memory of Clint whispering those words with such heart-breaking honesty and a hush of awed realisation, he still felt his stomach tighten in stunned disbelief, still felt that shiver of joy and sadness ripple up his spine and make his breath catch in his chest; if Fury did notice, he didn't say anything.

"Well," Fury had finally started as he finished jotting down the last of Phil's answers, closing his pad. "I'm not a religious man, but someone was obviously looking out for Barton. The fact he's even alive is a miracle I'm damned thankful for."

Phil's control wavered just a little bit as he stared up at Fury.

"Me too. He saved my life."

The silence that hung in the room after that simple statement was deafening, but Phil was in no rush to break it; just the presence of one of his oldest friends, the fuzzy warmth of the good drugs he was on and the lack of snow anywhere within a 30 mile radius, meant that for the first time in nearly three and a half days, Phil could feel a genuine smile tugging insistently at his lips as he relaxed back into the pillow.

Yes, he was emotionally drained, and that overwhelming guilt and pain was still gnawing away at him, but the fact that Clint was alive, that they'd _both_ survived their trip to hell and back was enough to soothe the fear and panic that continued to linger.

"So," he whispered groggily, "when am I getting out of here?"

"Agent Coulson, you are lucky I'm not tying you to the bed and forcing you to start writing up your mountain of paperwork now," Fury deadpanned, and Phil could see that he was only half joking.

"Doctor's reckon it'll be another three to four days before you can go _home – _that's to Stark's crazy ass tower of weirdos, _not_ to your office – and at least three more weeks after that until you're cleared for _light_ duty – not for getting yourself kidnapped by some crazy ass arms dealer. That understood, Agent?"

Phil smiled, a raspy laugh rumbling in his chest. "Yes Sir, Sir. What about Clint?"

Fury's eye seemed to softly glint with warmth and knowing at Phil's open use of Clint's given name, and Phil began to wonder whether or not he inadvertently gave off some sort of signal or impression that had obviously given Clint the courage to admit his feelings.

"Agent Barton has been sedated since 0200 hours; providing his condition doesn't deteriorate, and Stark's little wonder gizmo manages to get all that chemical shit out of his system, the doctors are confident he'll be awake within the week. Unfortunately though, that's about as much as we know right now. The rest will depend on Barton."

Phil nodded his understanding, feeling the heavily lull of exhaustion and sleep begin to press down on him, and Fury seemed to realise that Phil needed his rest. Standing up and stretching his back, Fury gave Phil a salute – an inside joke from the first few months of their acquaintance – finally looking like the terrifying bastard that Phil knew and admired.

"Agent Coulson, I'll be back to check on you soon. Don't do anything stupid."

Phil managed to hold the grin on his face until Fury had left the room; as the door closed behind him, and Phil could hear Fury giving orders to one of the nurses, Phil finally let the smile disappear completely.

Crumpling under the surge of emotions and the distressing ache that emanated from deep within him, Phil buried his face in the pillow beneath him, letting out a choked sigh as his silent tears soaked into the covers, sending him into the darkness once more.

* * *

Phil, living up to his superhuman reputation, was out of medical after two and a half days.

It had been rare for once that the doctors had actually agreed with him in his views that there was no point in him staying longer. The heavy cast around his wrist meant that the bones were all aligned and on their way to healing nicely, and the sling they'd persuaded – well actually forced him under threat of Fury – to wear meant that there was very little chance of him causing himself anymore damage. He could stay awake for longer than a few hours at a time; his vision was no longer impaired, and he was capable of keeping down everything given to him.

In short, Phil was already going mad with the inactivity, and the doctors, with the wary backing of Fury who swore that if Phil even raised an eyebrow at anything remotely dangerous he'd ground him for a year, had conceded that the facilities available at the Avengers Tower were more than suitable for Phil to continue his rest and rehabilitation there.

It had been a typically understated affair when he'd walked into the living room and found himself surrounded by an intimidating number of superpowered humans who all threatened Phil with varying levels of bodily violence if he ever decided to get himself kidnapped again. Phil knew that it was really because the memories of New York and Loki and Asgardian sceptres was still too fresh in all of their minds, but he was still grateful for signs of their concern for him all the same.

After that, it had been a very sedate few days following his return.

More often than not, he slept; the haze of good, strong drugs and even more intoxicating coffee helped to keep the lingering pain down to a minimum. Occasionally, he sat and watched television with Steve and Thor; he'd decided that trying to teach a man way out of his own time period and a demi-God the finer points of 'Storage Wars' and 'Supernanny' was an experience he'd never willingly repeat out of deference to his sanity, but it still passed the time.

More than once, he'd been accosted by Stark waving his arms and raving about some new modifications he'd made to certain bits of Phil's equipment in order to make him just that little bit more of a badass – whilst Stark's development of a new tracking and distress system was one that Phil could definitely see the advantages of, even he was sure that taser pens that doubled up as a portable detonation device was a step too far. More frequently than he cared to admit, when he was kept awake by the crippling combination of insomnia and flashbacks, he'd end up sharing a coffee in the kitchen with Banner; Phil actually enjoyed Banner's quiet, unassuming company and the way in which he understood Phil's need for normality.

Whilst Banner was still quite awkward and unsure around him, Phil liked the break in the constant hyperactivity and noise that followed everyone else like a shadow. It also helped that Banner didn't ask questions either; the scientist was more than use to the awkward stares and whispers himself, and Phil felt able to genuinely relax with him for a little while until he felt tired enough to retire back to his room.

Unsurprisingly though, Phil's main point of contact was Natasha; Phil didn't always see her, but he knew she was there. She was remarkably patient and protective of him; if he slept in too long, it would be Natasha who'd come and check on him. When his nightmares had him screaming and sobbing in the dead of night, it was Natasha who sat at the foot of his bed with a glass of her green tea and comforting presence. It was almost disconcerting to see this side to her; she, like Clint, liked to keep her distance more often than not.

When he'd expressed this however, her eyes had grown soft as she'd rested a slender hand against his ankle, staring straight into his eyes like she could see into the very depths of his mind.

"It's what Clint would want. I've never seen him trust someone the way he trusts you, and if he trusts you, then I trust you as well; he'd want someone to take care of you when he couldn't."

As much as he grew to love Natasha like a daughter, as much as he enjoyed Stark's hare-brained experiments and Banner's unimposing manner, the way that Steve watched him from afar and how Thor proclaimed his happiness for Phil's continuing health any and every time the Asgardian saw him, Phil could only stand so much before he retreated to his room for the privacy he desperately needed. He sent multiple messages and emails to Fury and medical on an hourly basis; he kept feeling his heart thud harder for a brief moment whenever he saw an update on Clint, then the grief and disappointment when there was no change, or a niggling development that meant more therapy, more pain, more setbacks in his Assets road to recovery.

It was making him ill with concern.

He needed to hear Clint's voice in his ear; he needed to be able to see the shy, honest smile that Clint preserved only for him. He needed to be able to drop down to his knees in front of the archer and beg for forgiveness for nearly getting him killed. There were so many things that Phil needed, and each of those things made that blistering pain in his chest come back stronger every time.

He'd openly laughed at Fury when the Director had suggested that Phil undergo further Psychological assessment to ensure he hadn't been compromised by the mission in Canada. Phil had told the truth to every man and woman with a clipboard and a checklist of questions; he wasn't being kept up at night by the mission, and he certainly hadn't been compromised by three days in a hostage situation. He could recall every detail of his experience perfectly; it wasn't like he had completely forgotten about it, but it wasn't the mission that haunted him.

It was Clint.

It was the visceral memories of Clint being beaten and bloodied in front of him. It was the way Clint had hysterically sobbed into his thigh and begged Phil to make it stop. It was the terror and fear in Clint's eyes when Cooper's gun had been pointed straight at his temple and Clint thought he was watching his life flash before him.

It was those three simple words, those last three words he'd heard Clint say to him that made Phil want to spiral away into depression and self-loathing.

It had taken everything that Clint probably ever possessed, every ounce of trust and emotion Clint had given to Phil, for him to be able to utter that simple statement, a statement Clint had probably never said before to anyone in his entire life, and what had been Phil's response?

Absolutely nothing.

No acknowledgement of the importance behind Clint's honesty except the tension of his body and the disbelief in his eyes.

No wonder Clint had shut down on him, had pulled away from Phil's attempt at comfort and had offered up no resistance to that final brutal beating at Cooper's hands. Clint most likely thought that Phil had as good as rejected him in his mind, and even the possibility of throwing away such a precious gift from Clint was enough to make Phil want to break into medical every single hour and hug away every doubt in the archers mind.

However, Phil had realised with a deep sigh when he saw the words, "no update on Agent Barton's condition available at this present time," clear as crystal on his laptop, there was no point in doing it when Clint wasn't awake to hear it.

So, instead, he drank coffee, watched hour after hour of bad television with the rest of the guys, and tried to ignore the aching in his chest at the very obvious Clint-shaped hole that was missing.

It was eight days after Phil had first woken up to the sight of Fury in his hospital room when the message Phil had frantically been waiting for came through, clear and to the point:

_'Agent Barton is awake and stable. Further information will be made available once doctors have completed their initial physical and psychological assessments.' _

"Oh my God," Phil breathed out, his voice thick and overwhelmed with silent thanks to whatever deity had been looking over Clint as his heart clenched in his chest.

Phil had been standing in the kitchen with Natasha and Stark when the news had come through, and if it wasn't for both of them supporting him when his knees gave out from the relief, Phil was certain that he would've been on the floor, a sobbing, grateful wreck.

As it was, neither Natasha or Stark commented on the tear that Phil could feel rolling down his cheek, but Phil knew they both understood; they both "blamed the drugs" for Phil's over emotional state when Steve and Banner had come in to investigate what was causing the commotion, and Phil was just overcome with gratitude that no-one pressed further than Phil being Clint's trusted friend and handler when it came to his tearful reaction.

For a few moments, the guilt and grief and fear that had burrowed its way into his very soul seemed to fade away, and Phil revelled in the new found sense of happiness and peace that settled over the Tower.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: So, yep, next part is here :) Hopefully you all enjoy it :)**

* * *

Phil knew that that quiet sense of normality couldn't last.

Even despite Fury and medical recommending an extended leave of absence in order to help him on the road to recovery, the simple heart of the matter was that SHIELD couldn't afford to be two senior Agents down at a time of such uncertainty since the New York incident. Phil wasn't anywhere near field-ready condition, but even with his right hand completely out of commission, it didn't mean that Phil was incapable of fulfilling other duties.

The pile of paperwork that had greeted him when he'd opened the door to his office eight days after walking out the medical ward almost made Phil contemplate early retirement and a holiday home in Mexico, but he'd grimly tackled it; it was at times like this he wasn't sure whether being ambidextrous was a good thing or not. He'd cleared his way through a backlog of simulation field reports from some of the juniors, a few outstanding personnel reviews and over a dozen cups of coffee before lunch; it wasn't his normal level of efficiency, but it was a more satisfactory use of his time than watching bad reality TV back at the Tower, so he couldn't really complain.

He couldn't focus fully on his tasks though; it felt like he was just going through the repetitive motions of an administration clerk as he kept one eye glued to his personal cell, the frown on his face deepening when he received a new message that was no different from the last 20 he'd gotten from varying sources.

_"We don't have any more current information on Agent Barton's status, pending delays in his assessments."_

Clint's medical records that Phil had pulled rank to access had no new entries past his waking up four days before either, and Phil couldn't deny that he wasn't concerned. SHIELD medical were normally more competent than this, which indicated the possibility of trouble from their end regarding Clint; if Phil's hand was trembling when he signed his initials on yet another form, well, it wasn't like anyone else had seen it. Phil had almost been relieved at the arrival of a junior Agent nervously shifting in place as they informed Phil that Fury had scheduled him to be present at an intelligence meeting regarding a potential assignment for the Avengers.

When Phil had nodded at the Agent, who quite frankly looked like they were going to piss themselves just from Phil's eyes on them before they quickly dismissed themselves; a smile cracked Phil's face for the first time that day. Even with a sling and the remainder of two black eyes, Phil still had it in him to put the new recruits in their places, and he chuckled faintly to himself as he walked in the direction of the conference room, forsaking lunch for a fresh cup of caffeinated goodness as he settled back into being the professional everyone knew he was.

~x~

"Right, any questions?" Fury asked, his one good eye scanning over all the individuals around the table.

Phil, sat at Fury's right hand side where Fury insisted he belonged, smiled weakly at the murmurs and acknowledgements that softly responded; whilst Stark looked like he was getting ready to make some sort of remark, the sudden wince that crossed his face – he blamed Natasha, who was focusing very intently on Fury from her position next to Tony; Phil knew from experience just how hard she could dig her nails in – made Stark bite his tongue and reluctantly offer up his agreement.

On any other day, Phil would've been actively engaging with the rest of his team, making sure every 't' was crossed and 'I' was dotted before he let them leave, but today, he found himself becoming distracted. His mind was wandering, and whilst he occasionally saw the inquiring glances coming from Steve that told him the Captain had noticed his subtle disinterest in the meeting, he couldn't bring himself to really pay much more attention beyond that. He knew his mind would automatically fill in the finer details of the future assignment when he came to writing up his reports, even if it felt like he couldn't remember anything himself.

After a few moments of silence, Fury nodded his head, authority written into every line of his body as he leaned back into his chair.

"Dismissed."

Phil was barely able to hold back his sigh as he wearily started to gather together the various files and records he'd somehow not realised he'd managed to accrue over the previous 90 minutes. Natasha held the door open for him, waiting for him to catch up, but before he could leave, Fury cleared his throat.

"If I may have a word, Agent Coulson?"

The smile on Natasha's face was almost sympathetic; usually, that phrase coming from Fury's mouth meant that someone was about to get chewed out for some transgression or another, and Phil shrugged his shoulders as she slipped out to follow the others.

"What about, Sir?" Phil asked respectfully once the door was closed.

Fury raised his hand to indicate the chair opposite from him, and if Phil suddenly felt more and more like a naughty schoolchild being sent to the principal's office, then Fury didn't call him out on it. He knew what was about to happen; he'd have had to have been naïve to assume that Fury hadn't noticed his attitude, yet the look on Fury's face was one that was tempered with an equal amount of concern and understanding as it was intimidation.

"Would you mind telling me where you were for the last hour and a half, because it most definitely was not in this room, Agent?"

Fury wasn't a believer in beating around the bush, and Phil could still admire that trait despite the cool stare fixed on him. It wasn't in Phil's nature to want to lie to Fury; whilst Phil could probably pull some weak excuses about the exhaustion and the side effects of the painkillers he was honestly feeling right then, Phil knew that Fury would call bullshit on it. Taking a deep breath, Phil suddenly became incredibly interested in the grain pattern of the table between them as he eventually came out with the question that had been bugging him for four days.

"Have you heard anything about Agent Barton, Sir?"

Fury heaved a sigh, his shoulders slumping down fractionally as he regarded Phil.

"Nothing that you don't already know, Coulson."

Phil knew a lie when he heard one, but he resisted the sudden urge to let Fury know that as he rolled his eyes wearily; he didn't really want an angry Fury on his case.

"Then why the hell hasn't medical said anything? It's been four days for God's sake."

"Because," Fury stated evenly, although Phil could hear the undertone of patience and exasperation in his voice, "medical haven't been able to do any substantial assessments on Barton yet."

"And why not?" Phil gesticulated, feeling his famous cool starting to abandon him as he stared down Fury from across the table, the distance between them seeming to grow shorter with each passing second.

"Because Barton isn't co-operating, Phil!" Fury yelled back, and Phil could hear the growing frustration in his words. "The last doctor to go within a foot of Barton ended up with one of their own scalpels held to their throat. He won't let anyone in the room with him, he hasn't said a single Goddamn thing to any of the psychs and he's refusing any sort of necessary medical treatment past fluids and Stark's little poison sucker; he's even refusing the half decent drugs. The reason there's been no update on his condition is because no fucking idiot down there has managed to get close enough to see what his condition is!"

Phil sunk down in his chair, his stomach curling into knots and his chest tightening; he should've seen this coming. Everyone should've seen this coming, and it made him feel sick to realise that Clint was obviously reacting severely to the mission. Phil felt that bubble of possessiveness flare up, and he immediately pushed himself up to his feet.

"I'll go talk to him."

Before he'd even taken more than a step, Fury's voice, loud and demanding attention rattled around the office.

"You will sit your ass back down in that seat, Agent, you're not allowed within a mile of medical until assessments have been completed."

Phil's hand convulsively tightened by his side as he felt any semblance of control flee, rounding on Fury as he just stood there.

"Any why the hell not? You know better than anyone else that Barton will probably only listen to me right now. I'm the only one he trusts when he's like this." P

hil barely took notice of the way Fury's eyebrow raised, or the way the pulse in his neck was throbbing, as he felt a wave of incompetence wash over him.

"That's the point; you're too involved in this, Agent. According to pysch, Barton has woken up over thirty times in the last four days screaming out your name for the whole of base to hear! Whether you like or not, Barton's been compromised, and the last thing any of us need before psych can work out what to do is for you to go down there all guns blazing and inadvertently cause any further damage!"

Phil stood there stunned, caught between the tears he could feel starting to bubble up beneath the surface and the irrational disbelief that clouded his mind, the guilt that had been haunting him since the warehouse threatening to overwhelm him.

"You somehow think this is _my_ fault?"

"For fuck's sake Phil, you're not listening to me!"

Fury's thundering shout seemed to echo for miles as he roughly pushed himself to his feet, throwing his arms up in the air before stepping in towards Phil. Phil, abruptly becoming aware of the intimidatingly pissed off figure stalking towards him, tried to restrain the urge to flinch when Fury grabbed his shoulders, physically shaking him.

"We don't know what we're dealing with. Other than a bit of guess work, your report and the evidence from the scene, we have no idea what the hell went down. Barton seems to think everyone's the enemy right now. That boy is dead on the inside, and the last thing we need, the last thing _I_ need, is for either of you to go off the deep end. Until psych can assess him, until Barton can be debriefed and we can fill in the gaps, there's nothing we can do. There's nothing you can do either, Phil, so stand down. "

The sudden silence was deafening, only the sound of Phil and Fury's deep, uneven breaths breaking the tension. Closing his eyes, Phil felt all of the anger deflate from him as he allowed Fury to passively lead him back to his chair; he belatedly became aware of the single warm streak of tears that had started falling down his cheek, and he cursed himself for being unable to hide his continued weakness.

He was sick and tired of crying; it didn't help anymore.

"I'm not happy about it either," Fury's voice was much calmer now, underlined with concern, but Phil could barely hear it past the rush of blood that was pounding inside his skull, making him feel sick, "but this is one of those times when we can't afford to push for answers. Barton's vital signs are still erratic, and the doctors are still worried about the possibility that we could still lose him. He's been in a constant state of shock since he woke up, and that's something we can't mess with. You know his history better than anyone else, Phil."

At the use of his given name, Phil finally looked up, painfully acknowledging the truth behind Fury's words.

"We have to be careful with him, you've seen how messed up he's been in the past after some of the shit he's been through, and those times weren't even a fraction of how he is now. Like it or not, he's been compromised – by you being there, by the torture, by the whole mission in general, we have no idea – but the fact is that he's obviously having some kind of nightmares or flashbacks involving you, and until psych can work out whether or not that's a good or bad thing, you're just going to have to keep your distance."

Phil let out a sigh, his entire body throbbing under the emotional exertion of the last few minutes.

"I guess you're right, Sir," Phil agreed quietly, already knowing with a sense of certainty that made him feel violently ill why Clint was most likely as affected by the mission as he was.

Those three little words, the ones that had kept Phil up for hours on end, resonated in his ears, and Phil had to swallow thickly against the fresh wave of guilt and agony that flowed through his veins.

"God Phil, why'd you have to be so invested in him?" Phil breathed out, the question filled with a sense of sympathy and disappointment that made Phil feel worse as he gave Fury a small, bitter smile.

"I don't know, Nick," he admitted honestly.

He looked up at Fury again, noticing the way that Nick seemed to be trying to unravel the puzzle sitting in front of him, before Fury nodded his head, trying to regain his appearance of authority and coolness.

"Go home, Agent. You've done enough today."

Phil tried not to let his relief be visibly apparent; he wasn't sure he'd have been able to focus on even the simplest of files and forms after what had just transpired, and he took a few moments to compose himself before he replied.

"Thank you, Sir."

Fury didn't seem to acknowledge Phil's answer as he set about gathering up the various pieces of paperwork and intel that littered the table.

"I will go and personally visit medical to try and get an update about Agent Barton's condition, before discussing any options or ideas that they might have regarding his recovery with you later on. Until then, stop pestering them; I hear another complaint from them because you're hacking into their systems or calling them every 5 minutes, and you will know about it. Seriously Coulson, direct order."

Phil tried to supress down the hint of jealousy and sadness that Fury's statement elicited in him; it killed him to know that there was nothing he could do, especially when the general consensus seemed to be that he would do more harm than good despite his history with the archer, but he couldn't be bothered to argue his case anymore. He just had to hope that Fury would be able to succeed in getting answers where everyone else had failed so far. Thanking Fury once more, trying to keep the waver out of his voice as he spoke, Phil curled a blessedly steady hand around the bundle of files and records he needed to go through before getting to his feet once more.

"Oh, and Phil," Fury called out, making Phil pause on his way to the door and freedom.

Letting out a sigh as he turned to face the Director, Phil rested the tips of his fingers just above the edge of the sling, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere above Fury's head.

"Take care of yourself. Remember, Barton isn't the only one who's gone through a hard time recently. If I hear from anyone in that Tower that you're continuing to play the blame game with yourself, I will personally ensure that you're left to supervise the Junior Agents field work training for the rest of your career."

The flicker of a grin on Fury's lips countered the seriousness of his words, and Phil found it nearly impossible to hold back the faint ghost of a smile that was hiding away, trying not to show Fury just how visibly affected he was by his friend's concern for him. It was an olive branch of peace, and Phil wasn't stupid enough to neglect it as he turned back towards the door.

"I mean it, Coulson, don't think I won't have my eye on you. Sitwell's begging for someone else to take over that car crash of a horror show…"

As the sound of Fury's threats and warnings accompanied him into the corridor and further towards the freedom Phil was suddenly aching for, Phil felt the smile drop from his face. The thought of going back to the Tower and facing more questions and sideways looks was something he wasn't sure he could deal with, but it was better than the alternative. At least he could try and use the company to forget about the heart-wrenching truth behind Fury's words, if even for a few hours.

Phil wasn't so much of a masochist that he would hole himself up at base and try to justify his personal interest and rank as an excuse to break into a medical ward where he most certainly wouldn't be appreciated. With the chant of _'coffee, painkillers and sleep,'_ overriding the protective urges he could feel demanding to be accepted, Phil deposited the files in his office before grabbing his jacket and walking towards the car park, hoping he'd be able to grab someone willing to give him a lift home.

_Home_, he thought sadly; it wasn't really home anymore, not as long as it was missing one important thing.

~x~

Phil didn't even batter an eye when he saw the door to his bedroom slightly ajar. There was only two people who'd possibly be brave or stupid enough to dare break into his quarters at 0100 hours –one of those individuals was currently banished to a hospital bed - and Phil wasn't about to go in there and demand that they leave.

He knew from personal experience just how stubborn and creative a super assassin could be when they wanted information; if he was honest, he was surprised that he hadn't been confronted earlier than this.

Taking a deep breath to try and muster together a little bit of courage and strength that he certainly didn't feel after the events in Fury's office that afternoon, Phil cracked the door open further, his eyes taking time to adjust to JARVIS's automatic dimming of the lights in deference to the sensitivity that brightness still caused him. Perched on the end of his bed, crossed legged and holding a mug of tea in their hands but still not looking any less dangerous than Phil knew they were, Natasha's eyes were immediately fixed on his, sitting in silence as Phil closed the door behind him.

He pointedly ignored her as he set about gathering an old pair of joggers and a faded rangers shirt to change into, his back to her as he started gingerly pulling off the suit he'd been wearing; he could see the reflection of her watching him in the mirror on top of his desk, but she didn't appear to be in a hurry. She almost looked to have a faint smile on her face from Phil's explicit show of trust in her, and she ducked her head to avidly gaze at her mug as Phil finished his evening ablutions with great care for his wrist and chest before sitting down next to her.

She didn't even flinch or tense at his presence; a great sign of progress for their relationship as Asset and handler.

Nodding her head towards the cup of coffee sitting on the cabinet next to Phil – Phil wasn't sure how he'd managed to miss it in his initial check of the room, but he put that down to the fact that there was an infamous assassin sitting on his bed – Phil gave her a brief smile before wrapping his hands around the thick china, cradling it in his lap as though it was some kind of precious cargo.

He had a feeling he knew why she was there; Natasha, despite the barrier she threw up around herself for protection, was quite devastatingly easy to read when she let anyone close enough to do so, and that air of vulnerability surrounding her made an odd lump appear in Phil's throat as he took a sip of coffee.

"What happened out there, Coulson?" Natasha breathed out, the voice even and soft, and Phil found that he couldn't look her in the eye.

She was nearly as close to Clint as he was; he also knew she didn't appreciate being kept out of the loop. Battling between his relationship as her friend who deserved to know the truth, and her handler who knew there was only so much he could tell her outside of official parameters, Phil kept silent instead, not wanting to betray his own emotions. Eventually, Natasha appeared to notice his indecision.

"I've read all the reports, but I can't trust them. I need to know, honestly, what happened? I feel like there's something that's being hidden."

Phil gave a bitter smile even as the bubble of panic began to build up in his chest; he knew he'd never be able to pull the wool over Natasha's eyes, and that was something Phil couldn't help but respect in her. Taking a few moments to compose himself, trying to push down everything inside him that was ripping away at his sanity, Phil kept his eyes fixed to the gradually cooling cup in his now trembling hands as he recounted the entire mission. ]

Natasha, to her credit, didn't try to interject or interrupt, remaining admirably calm; it stood at complete opposites with the fresh wave of raw pain that Phil failed to hide in his voice as he struggled to relive the memories and haunting scenes that had stuck with him near constantly since the entire ordeal had ended. He owed it to her to tell the truth; he took no shame in admitting to her the personal guilt and self-loathing he held, and he was able to finally verbalise the way he felt like his life had ended when Cooper had shot Clint that final time, when Clint had stared at him that final time before his eyes had rolled back into his head and all life seemed to drain from his body.

He felt some kind of distant, detached pride at the way he was able to just about hold himself together, but that didn't stop the bile roiling in his stomach. It didn't stop the depression and agony he felt rippling through him. By the time he had finished speaking, his breaths shallow and ragged in his attempt to supress the tears insistently making their presence known, Natasha's hand had gravitated to resting gently on his knee, her thumb rubbing small circles into the taut muscle.

"None of this was your fault, Phil," she intoned soothingly, even though her voice didn't carry the same level of calm and self-control it had when she'd first spoken to him. "You didn't ask for him to be tortured for you, you didn't know that Clint had no knowledge of the codes; Clint had actively made that decision."

Phil swallowed thickly, his hands now visibly shaking around his cup as Natasha carefully extracted the coffee before it ended up on the floor.

"But Clint chose to sacrifice himself for me. Me! Some replaceable, middle aged, dispensable Agent who didn't do anything to deserve that kind of protection from him."

Phil's guilt was gnawing away viciously inside his head; Clint obviously felt that Phil deserved to be saved, Clint obviously had a reason to protect him, and Phil wasn't ready to face the idea that Clint's pain and suffering had come from little more than a crush Phil didn't even know he could deal with. Natasha seemed to notice the conflict blazing away behind Phil's eyes, and she reached over to grasp at the trembling hands, holding them in her own. Phil almost started at the unexpected and highly uncharacteristic contact coming from the spy, the exposed fingers on his right hand spasmodically digging into the edge of his plaster cast, but Natasha refused to let go.

"Phil, what is it you're not telling me?" and the plea in Natasha's tones, the desperate search for an answer and understanding he could hear was enough to make him finally break.

"Clint said that he loved me."

Natasha's eyes widened a fraction, but Phil couldn't bring himself to care much as he let out an almost hysterical laugh, the tears visibly pooling in his stare as he roughly wiped his right hand down his face.

"The last thing Clint said to me in that hell hole was _'I love you,'_ the last damned thing."

Natasha leaned back slightly, letting out a sigh that had Phil turning to look at her questioningly; Natasha's eyes were filled with something that Phil couldn't read, and her voice came out stronger than previously.

"What did you say?"

Silence.

"I didn't." Phil admitted as he choked on the words, his shoulders full of tension at Natasha's sudden silence.

The mood in the room seemed to become just that little bit darker. He almost felt like he should have expected the sharp slap around the back of the head he received, but that didn't stop him wincing. Phil was about to protest, but the eyebrow that Natasha cocked at him was enough to make him stay silent as he rubbed the spot where Natasha's hand had caught him, feeling like a child being chastised by an authority figure. He almost felt indignant; now he knew how Clint felt when Natasha did the same thing to him, and Natasha seemed to hit Clint a _lot_.

"You're an absolute idiot."

Phil was stunned; his heart was starting to thud harder and faster in his chest at the steely gaze Natasha had fixed him with.

"What?" He responded clumsily, feeling a rush of dizziness run through him as he became distinctly nauseous. He was already destroying himself enough over this; he didn't need Natasha against him as well.

"I said," her voice tempered with equal measures of heat and remorse as she quietly spoke, emphasising her words. "You're an absolute idiot. A totally blind, utterly stupid idiot."

Phil opened his mouth before shutting it again just as quickly, staring at Natasha like he'd never seen her before in his life.

"I don't… I don't…"

Natasha just sighed at his incoherency, the look on her face no longer quite so deadly as previously, her tone not quite as sharp, swirling her tea for a few moments before trying a different tact.

"Do you remember Amsterdam?"

Phil sucked in a breath between his teeth; of course he remembered Amsterdam.

It had been one of their first joint missions seven years before, one of those records that should have stuck out for no particular reason, but it did. Clint had had to go undercover in one of those seedy little back alley bars to extract information from a mark regarding the attempted assassination of a major politician. Phil, to his ever increasing shame, had had to give Clint the orders when he'd seen the leery look on the mark's face, when he'd seen the way their dirty hands had clawed and strayed across Clint's flesh;_ 'by whatever means necessary, you need to get that information. Do whatever is needed to complete your mission._'

It had made Phil feel sick then, and it still made him feel sick now. Clint had still been vulnerable back then, unable to trust or touch anyone; his personnel file was dripping with red and cold clips of a history that spoke of physical, mental and sexual abuse, and yet Phil had had to make the call for the sake of the mission.

Clint hadn't protested, he hadn't argued, and that made it worse when Phil could hear his stuttered breaths and gasps of pain through his personal comm line. He'd heard every cry and hoarse, sickening pant of their encounter, and it hadn't been until he was aware of the faint sounds of Clint whispering to 'stop' that Phil had immediately called for an extraction. Natasha had been at the hotel within seconds, using her disguise as a local club owner in order to distract the mark before drugging them stupid and retrieving Clint.

It was the first time Phil had ever seen the archer in such a state, balling himself up in the corner of the hotel room that SHIELD had used as the main operation base and refusing to speak to anyone. Phil had been unable to stand it, and had handed over control of the rest of the mission to Sitwell; he'd spent that night just sitting opposite his distraught Asset, not trapping him or forcing him into anything. He had just sat watching him and reminding him of how much he was worth to the world, of his value and integrity, trying to wash away the doubts and fears that plagued the young man like a shadow and replace them with something that was true for once in his life.

That had been the night Clint had first touched him, first smiled at him.

Phil had learned something about what it took to be an Agent that night, and he had earned his most prized reward to date: the apparent trust of the most closed off, isolated, mistrusting being he'd ever met.

He shuddered weakly, nodding his head at Natasha as she finally looked up from her tea.

"He appeared at my door the next night, so drunk that I thought he had been drugged, and sobbing his heart out."

Phil's heart dropped; he remembered seeing the way that Clint had seemed off the next day, how he'd ended up with a disciplinary strike against his name for refusing to attend debrief with Sitwell before randomly dropping into Phil's office and falling asleep on his couch. There was something about that vulnerability, about the helpless fear in his eyes that had struck a chord in him, but he'd always put it down to the left over anxiety and adrenaline from the mission. He'd never thought about the possibility of there being something more behind it.

"Do you know what he did that night?"

Phil shook his head dumbly, instantly knowing where Natasha was going with this story, resisting the urge to make her stop as she stared him straight in the eyes.

"He curled up in my arms, on the verge of a full blown panic attack, and told me that he thought he was in love with you. I had never seen him so scared in his life when he told me that. He was terrified that I was going to tell you, and that he was going to get thrown back out on the streets because you wouldn't be able to stand the sight of him."

Phil swallowed, feeling like he was almost going to choke on the tightness that was forming in his chest. Seven years. Seven years of subtle glances, of those hopeful touches and drawn out nights when Phil physically ached at the helplessness in Clint's dark eyes; it suddenly seemed like the most obvious thing in the world, and Phil cursed himself for missing the signs. Phil closed his eyes, his stomach balling up into knots as he tried once more to force those tears back down he could feel lingering at the edges of his vision.

"Do you know how many times he's come to me after assignments, or tough missions, or times when he felt like he got too close to you, convinced that you'd discovered the truth? He loved you so much that he'd have rather run away than see any sort of disgust or sympathy in your eyes at the thought of him being so compromised by you?"

Phil winced again, vividly remembering the occasions when Clint had locked himself down on the range for days on end, had escaped into the vents or gone completely AWOL for a month; they'd all fallen directly after missions when there had been some kind of emotional attachment between them, some show or display of affection that Phil had mistaken for friendliness from the Specialist.

"When… When we thought you were dead," Natasha whispered, revealing the waver in her tone for the first time that night, "Clint spent over two weeks locked inside your office. We were genuinely worried he was going to commit suicide; the only thing he believed was that he was responsible for your death, that he had killed the only person in his life he had ever truly loved."

Phil could see how difficult it was for Natasha to talk about the aftermath of the New York incident. Phil knew this, of course; he'd read over the numerous psych reports detailing the dark place that Clint went after it was all over and he'd come out the other side virtually unscathed whilst hundreds were dead from Loki's cruel games. It didn't make it any easier to understand though, especially with what Natasha had admitted.

"The happiest day of his life was the day he found out you were alive, but he was still too scared to do anything. Clint may not look it, but he's sensitive, and the thought of rejection crushed him."

If Natasha could see into Phil's soul now, she would've seen the overwhelming remorse and emotional pain tearing through him, and he felt his mouth start to answer without his brain's permission.

"I never meant to… I don't… I was just in shock… I didn't…"

Natasha hushed him, clasping a hand gently on his shoulder as she tried to anchor him; he was obviously coming across as hysterically as he felt, and he fell into the comforting gesture gratefully.

"I know you didn't mean to," she replied matter of factly. "I can see how much he means to you."

Phil felt a red hot blush burn at his cheeks, but before he could say anything, Natasha cut him off with a smile and a raised eyebrow.

"Seriously? You are possibly the densest person I have ever met. Thor keeps asking about 'the bond between Son of Coul and the Hawk-eyed one,' and I think Stark is holding a betting pool about when you are finally going to see what's right in front of your face and go after him. It's obvious; even Fury's mentioned that the sooner you two sort out your 'emotional constipation,' the better it will be for everybody."

Phil snorted on the mixture of laughter and complete shock that threatened to come out before falling silent, contemplating everything that Natasha had said with a deep sigh.

"How on earth do you find out these things?"

The eyebrow Natasha raised at him was one that he'd seen directed at Clint many times; it was that look of _'really_?' and _'are you that stupid?,_' and Phil felt sufficiently chastised, even without the answer he knew that Natasha was dying to give. It made him feel normal for the first time in days, but eventually, he could feel the gravity of the situation weighing down on his shoulders; he no longer felt normal, he just felt cold.

"What can I do though?" He whispered out, sounding as lost as he felt, and the relaxing of Natasha's eyes made him feel worse. "He was ready to die for me, he admitted seven years of feelings for me in the space of three words, and the best I could do was stare at him. Do you really think he's ever going to trust me again after that?"

Natasha regarded him with a combination of sympathy and stubbornness that made him remember what he liked about her so much as she uncrossed her legs, downing the rest of her tea.

"You'll think of something, Phil. You'll make this right, because if you run away from this, or if you hurt Clint in any way, then I will personally make the rest of your life hell, Sir."

Phil shuddered at the threat lacing her tone, knowing that she was deadly serious as he watched her get to her feet, her back to him in a show of obvious trust between them.

"And what makes you so sure that I can make this right?" He asked to her retreating figure, and she briefly paused in his door way, backlit against the light streaming in from the corridor outside, visibly softening at the fear Phil failed to mask in his voice.

"Because I know you, and I know Clint. Because I know you care too much to let him suffer."

They both glanced over each other, acknowledging the honesty between them, and Phil nodded his head reluctantly.

"Good night, Coulson,"

Natasha remarked warmly, disappearing out of sight, and Phil immediately rolled onto his back, staring up at the blank ceiling above him and trying to stop the violent tremors he felt crashing over his body. Screwing his eyes shut as he roughly covered his face with his hands, Phil felt that same crippling pain and guilt pressing down on him.

He had a feeling sleep was going to be impossible to find for him tonight; he had too much to think about.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Here's the next part for all of you! Because of the way that this chapter finishes, I'm planning on posting the next part sooner so that none of you get mad at me :P Hope you all enjoy! :)**

* * *

It had been a further two and a half weeks after Natasha had come to Phil's room before Clint had finally driven medical mad enough to let him out.

Phil had received the message just as he was about to start compiling the data regarding intelligence gathering for a mission that was coming up on the horizon. It was nothing fancy, or even particularly detailed; _"Agent Barton has been released."_ Phil had read over those words more times than he cared to acknowledge, a small yet genuine smile gifting his face despite the doubts he still had.

He knew from Fury that the doctors had only just succeeded at being able to briefly assess Clint's physical condition and ensure that he was suitably bandaged and patched up before the archer had fled; psych hadn't even had that much luck. Despite their best efforts, Clint hadn't said anything that could help them get any sort of idea regarding what was going on in his head, and it was the unknown that Phil couldn't really deal with.

Psych had their own educated guesses, all the usual suspects now gracing Clint's medical file for the entire world to see: PTSD, Insomnia, Depression, Anxiety Attacks. It had almost made Phil angry to see them trying to shove Clint into this little box for their own benefit, to label him up as some kind of lost cause; the conclusion of their report recommending that Clint be indefinitely suspended from active work was one that Phil refused to accept, and he'd sent more than enough sternly worded emails to Psych informing them of his position.

Phil _knew_ that Clint could be fixed; he just didn't have any idea _how_, and it was this feeling of incompetence, of being an outsider looking in on an event that he had been a part of, that had made Phil's chest ache fiercely.

Despite Clint's release, Phil knew he wouldn't have strayed far. Despite the room available for him at the Avengers Tower, Phil knew Clint wouldn't take it. After such powerfully intense missions in the past, Clint either took two routes: he either fled as far as he could before someone – usually Phil himself – managed to drag him back from the abyss and convince him to come home, or he haunted headquarters, people not even realising he was there unless he let himself be found.

Phil didn't put it past Clint to try and run; even with his right ankle heavily casted and unable to bear any weight, even whilst recovering from two gunshot wounds and a multitude of horrific injuries, Clint would find a way to disappear off the grid if that was what he truly wanted. Phil didn't think that that was what Clint would want this time though; Clint needed to see some kind of humanity, something to prove to him that he was no longer trapped and isolated away from the rest of reality, and that made Phil almost certain that Clint would've stayed on base.

If he was on base however, then he was doing a good job of making himself hidden.

Nobody saw Clint, and there was never any sign that he even seemed to exist. The only thing that proved Clint was still alive somewhere was the torn up mission report Fury had found floating like confetti from the vent in his office, the lines and boxes devoid of any information other than a roughly scrawled_ 'Fuck you'_ scratched in capitals across the page. Phil was just waiting with a sickening feeling of certainty and dread for the time when a transfer request ended up on his office floor.

Phil couldn't even begin to guess how Clint had managed to work his way into the vents in his condition, but he wasn't surprised that Clint had found a way. Whilst Phil had been mildly surprised that Clint would be willing to enclose himself so physically after three days bound and held captive in a tiny cell, Phil didn't question it; he couldn't begin to imagine what was going on in Clint's mind, and if Clint somehow felt like crawling around the air vents with his broken ankle and relocated shoulder was going to help him somehow, then Phil wasn't going to question his judgment, even if he heard the alarm bells ringing loudly in his own head.

Phil knew that Clint would rip off any tracking or monitoring system medical possibly could've placed on him in order to keep him under surveillance; there was no point trying to outmanoeuvre a marksman who'd been trained to fight in the shadows, and Clint tended to prefer the anonymity when he was trying to think things through after missions. Still, Phil had a suspicion about where Clint would eventually end up; he just couldn't work out whether or not he was ready to face it.

~x~

It had been late in the afternoon, the numerous emails and messages hitting his inbox at rapid speed gradually disappearing under his constantly improving efficiency, when Phil had the very visible feeling that he was being watched.

He couldn't see anything out of the ordinary; it was instinct by now that let him know something was wrong, and he was loathe to doubt his instinct in a delicate moment such as this. Letting out a sigh, Phil tried to level out his breathing, focusing his hearing on the vent in the corner of his office. He tried to look as if he was avidly working on the files stacked in front of him, his mind forcing his eyes to stay glued to the words even as his heart sped up.

In the otherwise dead silence of the room, Phil could hear the softest scratch of plaster against metal, and it took all of his restraint not to look up. The hairs on the back of his neck were fully erect now under the invisible presence Phil knew was there, but Phil knew he had to be vigilant.

One wrong move, one wrong word, was likely to send Clint fleeing; it was like a tense negotiation, only the potential failure felt like it was a million times worse than anything he let himself feel out in the field.

Feeling his entire body tighten with the tension flooding through his veins, Phil carefully laid his pen beside the form he had been filling out, leaning back in the chair. His eyes were fixed to a spot on the wall opposite his desk, one that he wasn't really seeing, and he prayed to whatever deity that existed that no-one would disturb him until this was all over; Fury and Sitwell already thought he was going mad, he didn't need to give them actual proof.

"Clint," he whispered, his voice barely audible to his own ears, but he knew it would be loud enough for the Specialist to hear it if he was there.

A beat passed, a minute extended to two, then to three, and Phil had almost convinced himself that it was little more than his imagination when he heard it. It was the faintest ruffle of denim emanating slightly louder than before by the opening in his ceiling. It didn't sound like whatever was up there was getting ready to run, and Phil latched onto that cautious bit of optimism with both hands.

"I know you're there Clint, please, just say something."

Phil held his breath at the suffocating silence, not daring to tear his eyes away from the wall for fear of making the younger man retreat once more. It seemed like an eternity, the figure in the vents staying painfully mute, and Phil let out a wavering sigh, no longer caring about how crazy he might have appeared as he glanced up imploringly at the metal vent cover, his heart freezing in his chest. Obscured by the grate and the blackness of the metal casing, Phil could definitely make out two small dots of colour against the shadows; they suddenly seemed to grow wider at Phil's attention, ducking backwards.

"Please, Clint," Phil couldn't stop himself from begging, and the two dots very reluctantly appeared again.

Against the drafts of light entering the dark vent, Phil could just about make out the outline profile of a chin and a cheekbone. Taking a deep breath, Phil tried to push down the outcry of emotions demanding release at finally seeing those eyes once more.

"Clint, I know you're hurt," Phil managed to swallow thickly against the lump that threatened to choke his words, and he could see the way those haunted eyes watching him seemed to glisten against the low light. "I know you're hurt and you're angry. I understand. I know I made things worse, and I'm so sorry."

Phil could feel the tears welling in his own eyes; he felt a wave of irritating wash over him, but it quickly dissipated. He couldn't be strong anymore, not with those heartbreakingly bright eyes fixed on him, trying to convey everything that their owner obviously didn't have the courage to speak.

"You're so much better than this, you deserve so much more than what those cowards did to you, but it's all over now. It's over, and we're both alive. I know it seems dark and unbearable, like there's no light at the end of the tunnel, but you can fight this, I know you can. You are so strong, and so powerful, and I believe in you. I…I…"

Phil felt a bubble of shame and agony clawing away at him, his hands trembling as he struggled to say the words; he couldn't deny the truth anymore. Phil had realised that Natasha was right; there was something there, something pleading to be uncovered, and Phil knew he had been crushing its existence for too long. No matter how hard he fought, no matter how much he tried though, he just couldn't finish saying it, and he hated himself for it.

Stamping down on the urge to scream and cry in frustration, Phil roughly ran his hand across his face, allowing the pain and raw vulnerability to freely colour his words as he let his eyes slip shut.

"Please Clint, I need you."

Phil felt his heart shatter in his chest at the distressing whimper that came from above his head. The wrenching sound of a choked sob quickly trailed it, followed by the resonance of another, and another, and Phil could no longer hold back his own tears when he heard a tormented whine of agony echo through the vents, letting everyone for miles around hear it. The frantic scratching of Clint desperately trying to back himself down the narrow tunnel, of him urgently trying to flee Phil's presence, made a wave of nausea burn the back of Phil's throat.

The movements faded into nothing, leaving Phil by himself again, and Phil collapsed weakly against his desk, no longer finding it in himself to care as records and files were sent crashing to the floor. Phil knew he deserved this, but it didn't make it any easier to handle. His entire body violently shaking, Phil brought his fist down hard beside his head, the blossoming throb in his hand detracting for a brief moment from the guilt and self-loathing that were overwhelming him.

It felt like he was in a nightmare, one where any minute, Clint would disappear from his life forever because of his stupidity, and Phil was barely able to hold back the beginnings of the panic attack he could feel uncurling low in his gut. Phil couldn't bring himself to move, to regain his composure; he was now almost hoping that someone would come knocking at his door and give him a reason to pull himself from his wallowing, but no-one did.

There was only one person who ever really did when Phil needed them to, but Phil knew that they would be no help to him now.

He didn't blame Clint; this was the least he deserved. Whilst the rational part that had been squashed down into the corner of his mind was trying so hard to reassure him that Clint wasn't deliberately trying to hurt him, that it was Clint's reaction to the mission and his desire to work things through before confronting the real world again that was causing the archer to keep his distance, Phil's logic seemed to be overridden by the wave of nausea and exhaustion that was rippling through him. It never seemed to get easier in the past; it was always painful whenever Clint shut himself off from Phil's concern and presence, but it was always only temporary.

It was that knowledge, that quiet certainty, that Clint would always come back to him when he was ready - regardless of whether or not that took a few hours or a few weeks - that eased the ache Phil felt in the aftermath of his disappearance. This time though, Phil wasn't sure if Clint was _ever_ going to be ready to come back, or even if he'd be willing to come back after everything that had happened, and it was this sense of not knowing that made Phil feel hopelessly lost to the point of fear.

Hunched over his desk, Phil fell into a fitful rest, his chest burning from the exertion and his head spinning at a sickening speed as Phil struggled to bring his world back into alignment. It felt like days when Phil was finally able to open his eyes again, his vision blurry and sore as he stared at the screensaver on his computer, raggedly panting in a few harsh breaths to try and force his mind to calm down a bit.

It was the smallest, shallowest of victories when Phil finally found the energy to sit up, devoting one last baleful glance to the silent vent before roughly staggering to his feet, carelessly throwing all of the records and paperwork into his briefcase. Grabbing the jacket from the back of his chair, Phil almost couldn't care about the façade he was presenting to the world as he walked out into the corridor, trying to futilely convince himself that none of the other Agents could see the weakness betrayed in every line of his face.

Rounding the corner, Phil didn't even bother grabbing a coffee to calm his nerves as he walked out the main entrance into the storm that had gripped the city. The icy cold rain that soaked him through to the skin in a matter of seconds didn't bother him. The harsh, whipping wind that blew the edges of his jacket up and made him involuntarily shudder didn't bother him.

The ominous sound of thunder roaring above his head, or the dampness of the muddy water that splashed up his trouser leg as he forced himself to walk in the direction of the giant Tower that stood illuminated against the violent night sky didn't bother him. The thought of medical screaming blue murder at him for daring to walk in this severe a storm with his chest still healing didn't bother him either.

The only thing that bothered him, the only thing that cared to him, was the very real, vivid memory of those haunted eyes staring down at him.

~x~

"Agent Coulson, Sir. Agent Coulson."

Phil stirred groggily, his sleep-addled brain barely acknowledging the slightly tinny sounds of his name being called before he rolled back over, burying his face in the pillow beneath him. He could feel that fuzziness beginning to settle around his senses, trying to lull him back into his dreamless resting, before it was rudely interrupted again.

"Agent Coulson, there is something requiring your attention, Sir."

Cracking open his eyes, Phil realised that it was still dark; he obviously hadn't overslept anything then. Letting out a groan of frustration as he felt the remnants of sleep disappearing, leaving him in that strangely dream-like state of consciousness, Phil lifted his head, expecting to see someone standing in his room. All he saw was his watch sitting on the table beside his bed, informing him that it was disgustingly early in the morning – 0326 – but before Phil could roughly pull the covers back over his head, that voice spoke again.

"Sir, it is rather important that you wake up."

Letting out a huff of irritation, Phil continued with his previous actions, allowing himself to be encased in the thick layers of warmth. An involuntary shiver ran up his spine, and he could feel a ball of ice rattling around in his chest as he cleared his throat roughly; in hindsight, walking back through New York during a major storm whilst recovering from a major chest injury was probably not the greatest of his ideas. Despite his best efforts, Phil could see the sudden influx of light through the duvet – not much, but enough to let him know that whoever was trying to wake him up was obviously making sure he had no choice in the matter - and he frowned deeply.

"What?" He wearily barked out, his voice rough with exhaustion and impatience.

"Agent Coulson, I apologise for disturbing your rest, but there appears to be an individual on the roof of the tower, Sir."

Phil could barely keep the whine out of his tone as he threw his arms up in the air, knowing now that the chances of him being allowed to go back to sleep were very limited.

"Seriously JARVIS? You woke me up for this?"

To the AI's credit, it did manage to sound somewhat contrite when it answered; only Tony Stark would feel it was a good idea to give a computer some kind of independent thought and emotion just to fuck with everybody.

"I feel that you are the only person currently in the Tower who would be capable of dealing with the on-going situation."

"You telling me that Stark, or Rogers, or hell, even Natasha, aren't capable of dealing with an intruder?"

Phil was just desperate to try and deflect JARVIS onto someone else so that he could finally get back on with sleeping. He just wasn't in the mood to deal with this right now, and he pulled his arms up to cover his eyes; JARVIS obviously seemed to get the hint, dimming the lights back down to an acceptable level. Phil had hoped that that would be the end of it.

"Sir, Mr Stark is currently down in the robotics lab working on highly delicate calculations, Captain Rogers is currently residing in the basement, and Ms Romanov is leaving for a mission at 0400 hours; I felt it was inappropriate it to disturb her with something that could cause her to miss her designated arrival time."

Phil bit down on his tongue to stop himself from dressing down a computer of all things, before taking a few deep breaths to compose himself.

"Alright, I give in, why me?"

JARVIS almost seemed to hesitate before responding.

"Because Agent Coulson, it appears as if the individual on the roof is Agent Barton, Sir."

Phil immediately sat up, glaring indiscriminately around the room.

"What? And you didn't just think to tell me that when you woke me up? You thought it was better to beat around the bush? Goddamn it, JARVIS, how long do you think he's been up there?"

Not even waiting to hear the AI's response, Phil threw the covers back, swinging his legs over the edge of the bedframe and pushing himself to stand up. His chest and his head were throbbing from the sudden movement, but Phil managed to stamp down the niggling pain as he set about trying to find a shirt, eventually settling on an old, faded Captain America top that he didn't have to fight to get his cast through.

"I do not have an accurate time scale for Agent Barton's arrival, Sir, but judging by disturbances to the fire entrance locks, as well as Agent Barton's core temperature at this moment in time, I would have to estimate that Agent Barton has been up on the roof for a considerable length of time, Sir, possibly for a few hours."

If Phil's actions took on a sense of urgency, then JARVIS didn't comment on it; giving up on trying to search out his shoes, Phil gave a hasty wince when the rumble of thunder boomed around the Tower.

"JARVIS, what is the weather doing out there right now?"

"According to meteorological patterns and forecasts, New York is currently suffering from severe storm conditions, Sir. It might not be wise to go out onto the rooftop barefooted, Agent Coulson."

Phil gave a brief smile at the AI's inbuilt concern – who needed SHIELD when you had your own permanent medic surrounding you? – before shrugging on the jacket he'd left draped across the foot of his bed. He knew that he looked a far way from the perfectly constructed Agent image he'd spent years cultivating, but at that moment in time, he couldn't bring himself to care. There was something far more important to him that was at stake right then. Pausing for a few moments as he tried to hold back the nerves he could feel pulsing through him, Phil crossed the room as fast as he could through the haze of bleary sleep that he hadn't fully shaken off.

"JARVIS, I'll be back soon; do not let anyone else know about Barton, okay?"

"Of course, Agent Coulson. I will also increase the ambient heating so that the fire entrance corridor and your quarters are of a sufficient temperature to prevent any discomfort to either yourself or Agent Barton upon your return, Sir."

Phil hadn't even caught the last of the AI's statement, but he felt the air suddenly become humid as he made his way to the fire exit that led up to the roof, his feet clapping loudly against the concrete. The stairs were faster than the elevator, even despite their number, and Phil weighed up the benefits of possibly ending in medical versus getting to Clint faster. He almost immediately knew which option would win out, and he took in a deep lungful of air before setting off at a fast jog, taking the flight three or four steps at a time.

He felt dizzy by the time he reached the door to the roof; he could taste the saltiness of sweat against his lips, every muscle in his body tensing in a mixture of pain and fear as he stopped, trying to catch his breath. Phil could hear the ferocity of the storm lashing against the Tower, a strong chill making his skin uncomfortably clammy, and he steeled himself for the potential confrontation that was about to take place. Trying to ignore the way his hand was shaking, he pushed the bar down, immediately feeling like he'd dived face first into a waterfall.

The weather was horrific, even compared to the conditions he'd walked home in, and it took him a few moments to catch the air that had been stolen from his lungs before he stepped out onto the exposed rooftop. Even the bright flashes of lightning that illuminated the black sky didn't make it any easier to see against the violent rain; Phil tried to shield himself as best as he could as he scanned around him, his heart thudding in his chest. For some odd reason, fragmented memories of the night that Clint had finally been recruited into SHIELD came to the front of his mind, and he faintly smiled despite himself; it seemed every cataclysmic confrontation involving Clint had to have some shitty weather and a roof in there somewhere.

At least he hopefully wasn't going to have to shoot him this time.

Turning around to focus on the furthest corner from the door, Phil felt as if time had stopped, his entire body freezing in place. There, huddled over on themselves on the most precarious, exposed ledge they could've found, was Clint. He didn't appear to have noticed Phil's arrival; if he had, he was most certainly keeping his reaction to himself, and that thought of Clint being closed off was something that made a lump stick at the back of Phil's throat.

Phil belatedly realised the significance of the perch Clint had chosen to position himself on. It was the one he always sat on after a bad mission, the one that he and Phil would sit on together as they worked together to ground and reassure themselves. The vivid memories of the thousands of times they'd done this in the past made Phil feel like he'd been punched in the gut; it really did seem like Clint was a creature of habit. Phil just wasn't sure whether or not he was ready to take the plunge. He desperately wanted to, every drop of blood in his body thrumming with that urge to comfort and protect _his_ archer; his very real fear though about how Clint would see him – as the enemy, as the betrayer, as little more than a stranger – made it difficult to muster the courage to move.

Taking the cowardly way out, and convincing himself that he was more concerned about the danger of Clint giving himself hypothermia than he was about every unspoken word that had fallen between them, Phil very slowly stepped towards the soaked figure.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: So, as promised after my slightly cruel ending to the last chapter, here's the next part for you all! Hopefully you all enjoy it :)**

* * *

It wasn't until Phil was just under a metre away from Clint that his Asset gave his first indication and acknowledgement of Phil's presence; he wrapped his arms a little bit tighter around his knees before turning his head to look at Phil, and Phil felt like he was going to cave under the guilt and pain that overwhelmed him.

Those large, dark eyes were shining with tears, the owner caught between the conflict of fleeing or not as Clint's shoulders visibly tensed. His skin was pale and sallow, the fading remnants of ugly bruises mottling his cheek and throat. Clint looked _ill_, and that was something Phil couldn't stand as he finally found his strength. Taking the greatest care not to startle the silent man, Phil slowly lowered himself onto the edge of the ledge; he could feel the faint body heat emanating from Clint's drenched skin, his shirt see-through and clinging to his definitely thinner frame, and the painful familiarity of the routine was one that made Phil want to smile and cry with equal measures.

He was literally inches away from Clint, close enough to touch him, yet Phil had never felt so far away.

Despite the increasing intensity of the storm roaring all around them, a strange hush seemed to fall between them, and Phil was loathe to even think about breaking it. He let his eyes linger on every exposed bit of flesh, cataloguing the thick bandage peering out from beneath the sleeve of Clint's shirt, the rough scarring across the top of his chest, the calloused blisters at the nape of his neck, and Phil could feel his fingers twitching with the desire to soothe away all of Clint's pain with his touch alone. Letting out a deep sigh, Phil resisted, feeling that coldness take residence in his chest again.

The lack of response coming from Clint was disturbing; to see such a vibrant, mouthy Agent this quiet, this dead looking, was more distressing than any sound of pain or sign of inflicted injury. The hollow emptiness gracing his eyes as he continued just watching Phil made Phil feel worse; he would've preferred shouting, violence, some outburst to show that his Clint still existed somewhere beneath the ghost that was using his body instead, anything but this bitter silence.

The awkward quiet stretched out for what felt like hours, Phil aching from the effects of the weather on his still recovering body, before it was finally broken.

"I had to know."

Clint's voice was nothing more than a raw rasp, his tone thick with vulnerability as Phil watched him visibly struggle to form words.

"They said… They said you were alive, but I had to know the truth."

His stomach clenched as Phil swallowed the bile burning in his throat.

"Yeah," he responded, his voice just as soft as Clint's. "I'm alive."

The '_Because of you' _hung between them, and Phil was barely able to keep his hand from reaching out to soothe the distress he could feel radiating like shame from the Specialist. It was silent again for the longest moment. Phil wasn't sure whether or not he wanted to speak. Whilst hearing Clint's voice for the first time in three weeks was one that helped to settle the roiling in his gut, the hollow inflection was one that instantly made it flare up again. No-one, let alone his normally cocky, arrogant, amazing archer, should sound that way, and the thought that that was Clint's voice _hurt_.

Silence hung in the air as they both stared out at the storm clouds swirling thick and fast over head.

"Why didn't you come?"

If it was possible for Phil to feel any guiltier than he already did, then Clint had managed to find a way. It was such a simple question, not unlike one a child would ask a parent, but it was the devastating tone of sadness and betrayal that seemed to lace the words that made Phil's heart clench like a vice. The shattering pain written into every line on Clint's body made it impossible to breathe, and Phil could no longer keep his protectiveness locked away. He reached out, brushing the tips of his numbed fingers against Clint's knee; he tried not to take it personally when Clint flinched away from his touch like he had been burned.

"I wanted to, so much," Phil whispered lowly, his own eyes filling with tears. "I was kept away, Pysch and Fury said I was too close. They said it was better that way."

The faint glimmer of light in Clint's eyes seemed to die, and Phil could sense the way Clint withdrew into himself, turning his head to rest his chin on his knees as he stared out into the storm.

"I'm sorry, Sir," Clint eventually responded, his tone oddly flat and too formal for the conversation they were having; it took Phil a moment to realise what Clint was obviously thinking, and he shook his head quickly.

"No, Clint, it wasn't your fault, they were just concerned about you."

Clint let out a bitter snort, his entire body thrumming with tension.

"Of course they were," he muttered sarcastically, and Phil could sense the change; it was like those precious few moments of calm in the eye of a hurricane before it destroyed everything in its path, and Phil frantically launched himself into damage control.

"They were! Clint, you weren't talking to anyone, you were refusing any help; they lost count of how many nightmares you woke up from apparently screaming and sobbing my name, begging for someone to stop. I tried Clint, I tried so many ti-"

"Bullshit," Clint suddenly spat out, his voice dripping with a potent mixture of anger and agony, and Phil couldn't help but wince. "You never tried, no-one ever does."

"Clint," Phil pleaded, his heart breaking at the self-loathing and worthlessness he could hear in Clint's voice, but he was quickly quietened by the glare the younger man pinned him with.

"No, Coulson!" Clint's breathes were harsh and ragged, his tone just this side of hysterical as he ran a hand roughly through his hair, his eyes filled with anger and depression that made Phil want to be sick.

"Don't lie to me! You saw what they did to me, you saw how broken they made me, but you just don't care! None of you care!"

The choked sob that caught the edge of Clint's words made Phil shut his eyes, trying to hide the effect that Clint's vicious, believed words were having on him. He'd seen this before; he'd seen this desperate battle to push people away, the spiralling fury that masked the void, in the past, recognising it for what it was. This was the side of Clint he'd seen when he had first been recruited, fresh from a lifetime of abuse and fear; this was the Clint he'd read about in the aftermath of New York and Phil's supposed death, and Phil had to make him stop.

No longer caring for his own well-being, Phil grabbed Clint's shoulders, fighting the way that Clint violently tried to free himself from his grasp as his eyes darkened and profuse tears rolled down his Asset's face.

"I care!" Phil fiercely responded, trying to throw every ounce of authority and honesty he could behind the words. "People care, Clint! I know you don't believe that, but we do!"

"Bullshit! You just feel sorry for me!" Clint threw back bitterly, his voice wavering as the tears flowed faster.

Phil's hands slackened their grip on Clint's shoulders, but Clint made no effort to get away from him as he wept, the walls he'd carefully constructed around himself in the aftermath of their rescue getting torn down in his grief.

"What makes you think that that's true?" Phil whispered, all the heat draining from him when he realised that Clint wasn't angry, but upset. It was impossible for Phil to feel any sort of fury when he sat so frail and exposed.

Clint laughed harshly, his eyes wild and his chest heaving as he failed to regain his composure.

"Just... just look at me! Just look at my record! All I ever seem to do is fuck up. Out on a mission, I'm the one who gets kidnapped, or the one who gets injured, or the one who misses the target because I can't understand the words or the orders the other agents scream at me. Even with you, you give me that look sometimes, that disappointed 'what did I do to get stuck with you' sorta-"

Phil was stunned. "Hang on a second! When have I ever given you any indication that I was stuck with you like some kind of punishment? When have I ever been disappointed in you, Clint?"

"You said nothing! Back in that hell-hole, you said nothing; you looked at me like I was some kind of child or disease, but you're too nice to admit it. Here I am, some fucked up circus freak you got stuck with, and you don't even have the balls to let me down. You're just like the rest of them!"

Phil's blood ran cold as his hands moved from Clint's shoulders to frame his face, forcing the archer to look him dead in the eye.

"Don't you ever compare me to them; I will never hurt you like that. Clint Barton, you are the most important thing in my life, and damn you for thinking otherwise. I could never be disappointed in you. Frustrated, yeah. Angry, sometimes, but you could never do anything that would make me disappointed in you. I've never thought of you as a burden, or as some kid that got thrown at me because no-one else could be bothered. If you thought that, do you really think I'd still be here? Do you really think that I'd have sat by your bedside in the past making sure you didn't do anything stupid to annoy medical, or taught you how to read and write enough to fill in your own forms, to read your magazines and be able to join in games with the guys, if I thought that you were a lost cause?"

Clint's eyes welled with tears as they dropped down to stare anywhere other than Phil's eyes. He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, but Phil could see the torrent of fear and expected rejection that Clint was waiting to hear. It hurt to think that Clint had always viewed himself that way, that such a strong, powerful person could be wracked with such severe insecurities no-one else even knew about. It was the overwhelming desire to repair all of those doubts that allowed Phil the courage to curl his thumb and fingers softly under Clint's chin, waiting patiently for him to look up again.

"You think that I don't care about you? You think I'm just waiting to kick you to the curb when you're down and out because you think you're too damaged? You're wrong, Clint, you've never been more wrong in your life."

Clint fell silent, his forehead resting against Phil's as all the tension and fight in his body flowed out of him. Phil was suddenly aware of just how intimate his near confession had become; he could feel Clint's soft, uneven breaths brushing against his rain-slicked face, could feel the dampness of his tears beneath his fingertips as they trailed his cheek, and the doubt reflecting back at him from Clint's eyes was almost enough to convince him to close the final gap between them.

It killed Phil to look away as he tried to move his head back, but before he could break the contact with Clint, Clint's hand came up to cradle the back of his head, insistently tugging him forward. Phil was powerless to stop him, powerless to resist the desperate helplessness and pleading written into the younger man, and before he knew what was happening, Clint's lips were against his.

It was almost devastatingly tender, nothing more than the softest caress of skin touching skin, yet it was enough to make Phil feel like he could breathe again for the first time in weeks. As much as Phil wanted it to go further, to physically try and prove to Clint just how much he meant to him, Phil knew that he couldn't. Clint was vulnerable, emotionally torn open to the core, and Phil couldn't take advantage of that. Instead, he let Clint control every aspect of that one simple kiss, the tentative brushing of his lips against Phil's as Clint's own hand came up to curl gently around Phil's face, holding him in place.

It wasn't the passionate, messy kiss Phil had dreamed of, but that didn't make it any less intense. It was almost as if Clint was just breathing in Phil's air, not daring to push any further for fear of making Phil flee, and it was the most earth-shattering moment of Phil's life. Whilst it felt like an eternity, it had been little more than a scarce few seconds before Clint pulled back. His eyes were bright, but Phil could still see the thick fear and panic clouding the dim light in them, and Phil gently ran his fingers through Clint's hair, feeling with some satisfaction the way the archer seemed to melt instinctively into his touch.

Clint was nowhere near fine, not in the slightest, but this was at least a start.

As the haze of the moment finally began to dissipate, Phil could feel the way Clint was shivering in his hands, could hear the way his breathing was just slightly rasped and laboured, and a sudden rumble of thunder reminded him of the storm that was still blowing around them. A slight frown falling across his face, Phil could see the ashen purple circles beneath Clint's eyes, the sickly paleness of his skin that guiltily reminded Phil of how bad Clint still was, and Phil knew it was time to try and coax Clint into the warmth.

"We need to get inside; we've been out here long enough as it is."

Normally, Clint would've disobeyed, deliberately finding excuses just to rile Phil up; Clint's weary capitulation, whilst completely prepared for, was still enough to make Phil's heart clench tight as he put his bare feet back down onto solid concrete. He reached his hand out towards Clint, and the archer all but fell into it, his usual grace and elegance abandoning him as he stumbled into Phil's body, wrapping his arms tight around him and refusing to let go, burying his face into Phil's shoulder as he let out a quiet sob.

He was trembling as Phil brought his own arms around him, and it took Phil a couple of seconds to realise that Clint's right foot was hovering off the floor by a few inches. The cast was filthy and misshapen around his ankle, and he tried to temper the brief irritation that flared through him at Clint's very obvious disregard for his own health. He was upset at the state Clint had fallen into, he couldn't deny that, but he knew better than to mention anything now that would break the archer's fragile trust in him.

"Come on Clint, arm around my shoulder, medical would kick both our asses if they knew you were running around without your crutches."

The hint of an order he let colour his words was more than enough to get Clint to obey him, yet the younger man still flinched back, whispering out the faintest apology as Phil begun trying to manoeuvre them back towards the fire exit. Phil's chest was screaming at the overexertion, but Phil stamped down on the pain as he concentrated all of his efforts on trying to get Clint out of the rain. It was slow and excruciating process, Clint occasionally forgetting himself and placing his weight on his ankle before buckling into Phil with a distressed whimper, but they eventually managed to get the door shut behind them, the violent howling of the storm being reduced to little more than a background noise.

It was typical that at a time like this the elevator down to the main floors wasn't working, but Phil managed to get Clint down the steep stairs with no major incidents. By the time they reached the corridor to Phil's bedroom, Clint looked dead on his feet, and Phil was convinced he was going to end up coughing his lungs up judging from the burning throb in his chest. Fortunately, it seemed that JARVIS knew they were there, and the door to Phil's room was open by the time they reached it. The wave of heat that hit them both across the face, instantly bringing heavy goose bumps on their skin as they shuddered against the rise in temperature, was enough to make Phil gratefully smile in appreciation.

The light increased, making Phil blink rapidly to try and dispel the balls of colour floating in his vision as he hissed out his breaths through his teeth, the pain only becoming more and more inflamed as Clint's body weight encroached into his. It was with a sigh of relief that Phil was able to lower Clint to sit on the edge of his bed. Under the glare of the lights and the heavy burden of exhaustion, it was easy to see the wretched state the Agent was in; his shivering was worse now, his skin flushed a blotchy red and his clothes dripping puddles onto his duvet. Making sure the door was locked, Phil immediately set about trying to find some dry pants for Clint to change into, before grabbing a large towel from the adjacent bathroom and kneeling on the floor by Clint's feet.

The toes on his right foot were almost purple, his bottom of his cast black with dirt, and Phil resigned himself to another visit to medical as he pulled Clint's other shoe off. Throwing the towel onto Clint's lap – who instantly pulled it around himself with a sigh – Phil rummaged through the drawer of his desk, finding a heavy blade that he used to cut the plaster from Clint's skin. Clint was deathly still as Phil ran the blade down the edge of his leg, breaking the cast off with a loud crack. Once it was on the floor, Phil ran one hand soothingly up and down Clint's calf whilst he inspected the joint. It looked angrily swollen, the skin hot and bruised, and he once again resisted the urge to chew out the archer for his carelessness.

Knowing that his righteous anger wouldn't help anyone right now, Phil disappeared into the bathroom once more before returning with an icepack and laying it over the tender ankle, being careful to keep it in place whilst he helped Clint out of his sodden jeans and shirt, throwing them into a pile in the corner of the room to deal with later. This was a sight Phil hadn't ever imagined; Clint Barton, sitting on his bed in only his underwear, dripping wet from the rain and looking like he was expecting to get thrown out on his ass any second. Sure, he'd seen Clint in various states and degrees of disarray before; they'd been handler and Asset for so long now that it would've been more out of the ordinary if he hadn't, but he wasn't used to seeing Clint this way.

Phil's hand stopped its ministrations against the back of Clint's calf, his eyes drawn to the new expanse of flesh on display. Far from the scene of arousal and lust Phil had thought possible when it came to seeing Clint like this, it just made Phil feel sad. Vicious stripes of yellowy bruises decorated Clint's ribs, tailing off into an angry, jagged circle scar tissue that sat at the top of his abdomen. Faint white lines ran uniformly up the inside of both of Clint's thighs, adding to the mass of old, forgotten memories that had long faded into near obscurity. Leaning forward slightly, Phil let both hands rest on Clint's knees, his fingers gently brushing against the sticky skin as he looked up at Clint's face.

Clint audibly gulped, his hands fisted tightly into the damp bedcovers; he wasn't looking at Phil though. His eyes were screwed shut, the shallow movements of his chest betraying the near panic that Clint was radiating, but Clint didn't move. It was like he had resigned himself to this, his muscles tensing in an obvious desire to run that Clint was ruthlessly supressing. It took Phil a few seconds, way too long in his own mind, to realise just how compromising a position Clint seemed to be in. It took barely any time after that thought to realise what Clint was waiting for, and Phil was almost unable to hold back the rush of bile burning his throat.

The idea of someone, anyone, daring to hurt Clint that way, making him too afraid and scared to shrug off the foreign hands that clawed and scratched and _forced_, made Phil see red; if it wasn't for the fact that half of Cooper's men were already dead, Phil would've killed them with his bare hands. As it was, Phil was aware of the way the tips of his fingers were starting to bite into the soft flesh of Clint's thigh, and he immediately let go; leaning back to create a bit of distance between them, Phil let out a sigh.

"Clint, it's just me. I just needed to check you over; I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable. I won't touch you again if you don't want me to."

Eventually, Clint managed to open his eyes, gazing down nervously at Phil as he swallowed roughly, his voice cracked and raw.

"I'm… I'm fine, I'm sorry; I just… just… overreacted. It won't happen again, Sir."

Phil frowned at the words, his brain instantly reminding him of mission reports that mentioned Clint's aversion to touch, yet how the archer had thrown himself into situations that made him visibly uncomfortable if it meant he could do something that would make the Senior Agent in charge proud of him. All the boundaries were beginning to blur in Phil's head, Clint's behaviour crossing the line from pure nervous and a desire to please to something darker, less consensual, and Phil tried to keep his voice as calm and honest as possible as he extended his hand out to rest on top of Clint's.

"Clint, you don't need to apologise for this, I went further than appropriate. You don't need to be afraid of me."

Phil could feel the way Clint's hand balled up tighter beneath his own, could feel the way the younger man listed towards him slightly, and Phil was worried that Clint was going to end up passing out on the floor of his bedroom.

"I don't want to be afraid of you! I don't want to be afraid of seeing people in the corridor who get too close! I can't even look in a mirror anymore without being afraid of myself! I can't sleep at night without being afraid of the nightmares and the flashbacks! It's like I'm scared of my entire life, yet I can't do anything to stop it! They took everything from me, and I don't know how to get it back anymore!"

The explosion of emotion and agony behind Clint's otherwise whispered words made Phil's gut twist hard, and he climbed to his feet, reaching out towards the Specialist and drawing him in, cradling the back of his head comfortingly as Clint's temple was pressed tightly against Phil's chest. It was worth the dull ache that rattled his lungs as he let his hands drift around to cover Clint's other ear softly, making sure that the only thing filling the young man's mind was the steady thump of his heartbeat. His lips curling into a weary, genuine smile as Clint gradually slumped further and further into him, the tension leaving his shoulders, Phil let himself relax.

"Clint, I know what it's like to be afraid. It nearly destroyed me when we were in that warehouse to know that you were risking your life and there wasn't a thing I could do to make it stop."

Phil paused to take in a shuddering breath as he felt his throat close up.

"It's dark now, everything seems scary, and you don't know where to run or how to fight it. That's okay Clint," Phil soothed, his voice dropping to a near whisper as he tenderly caressed the side of Clint's head, feeling the stuttered sigh that Clint released against his skin. "It's okay to admit that you're afraid. You're only human, and you went through a horrific experience. This is why I need you to trust me when I say that it will get better. This is why I need you to talk to the doctors, and selfishly take every bit of help you need from me. I'm not going anywhere, Clint, I promise."

Phil felt his own guilt and nausea begin to disappear as he murmured litanies of comforting nonsense at the trembling Asset buried in his arms, his own head feeling clearer for the first time that night. It seemed like they were fixed in that position forever, but eventually, the cramping of Phil's stomach and leg muscles, and the exhaustion drilling deep into his bones, meant that he had to move. Clint was only just awake, his eyes blurred and bloodshot as he stared up almost pathetically, his need and fear scrawled into his face.

Feeling that rush of protectiveness and affection surge through him, Phil curled his fingers underneath Clint's chin, gently raising his head as he leaned in. He made every movement slow and deliberate, giving Clint more than enough time to back out before he chastely pressed his lips against Clint's. It wasn't some earth-shattering moment like the first one they'd shared; it wasn't even a passionate kiss despite the electricity that rippled up Phil's spine at the sensations. It was just a soft kiss that Phil was able to pour all of his emotions into, Clint's lips slowly moulding against his as he fell into it with a gentle sigh.

This one lasted much longer than the first, Phil's tongue brushing the length of Clint's full bottom lip as Clint became putty in his hands, held captive by the desire and comfort that Phil tried to put into it as Clint shivered, his own hand tentatively coming up to rest on Phil's hip. Phil felt his stomach clench convulsively as Clint managed to find the courage to let his palm brush underneath his shirt, the colder skin resting against the planes of Phil's quickly heating abdomen, and he let out an involuntary moan that was swallowed up by Clint's lips.

It took all of Phil's willpower to pull back, Clint's eyes blown and dark as he gazed imploringly up at his handler, and Phil gave a lazy grin when he realised Clint's hand was almost stuck to his skin like glue. It might not have been a familiar feeling – especially not in this context – but it was one that Phil knew he was never going to be able to tire of as he eventually managed to take a step back, pulling the towel that had fallen from Clint's shoulders off the duvet before throwing that in the corner too.

"Come on Clint, I don't know about you, but I feel exhausted."

Clint gave a faint smile that fell pretty quickly from his face as he gave Phil a really good look for the first time since he'd seen him on the roof; Phil knew when Clint could see the outward signs of his restlessness, his eyes fixed warily onto a point just above Phil's shoulder.

"I'm sorry; I didn't think that anyone would wake you."

Phil waved his hand dismissively, immediately cutting off the rest of the apologies that he knew were getting ready to fall from Clint's mouth.

"It's fine; JARVIS just owes me a favour. Seriously though Clint, when was the last time you managed to sleep for any length of time?"

Clint immediately fell silent, his eyes falling ashamedly to focus on the floor by Phil's feet as Phil managed to prop him up against the side, pulling the damp covers of the bed.

"I haven't," he reluctantly admitted, the light in his pupils dimming as the purple, ashen circles under his eyes seemed to become more pronounced. "I can't, not without…"

Clint's voice dropped as he failed to finish the sentence, and Phil felt the ball of sympathy and understanding unfurl in his chest as he moved Clint to perch on the edge of his desk whilst he set about remaking the bed with warm covers from the cupboard. He knew from personal experience just how terrifying the worst of the nightmares and flashbacks could be, and the thought that Clint had suffered through that alone for weeks was enough to steel his countenance.

"It's okay," he reassured. "You'll sleep here tonight, I'll keep you safe."

A pathetically grateful brightness flashed through his features, Clint's body sagging under the burden of emotions and pains that were starting to be lifted as he let Phil handle him back towards the bed.

"What about the others?" Clint whispered nervously.

"Don't worry about them. Natasha's out in the field, and Stark and Rogers are busy. Besides, it doesn't matter what they think if they find you here anyway. They care about you too."

It took a little bit of effort, but soon enough, Clint was laying on the mattress, the duvet still pooled at his feet where Phil had left it. Phil frowned deeply at the unnatural stillness and confinement of Clint's body; this wasn't like Clint in the slightest. He knew, from the numerous missions where Clint had had to share a bed with someone, or when he had been granted a half decent length of time to rest without fear of being disturbed, that Clint was a sprawler.

Usually, he woke up in the mornings with the blankets tangled around him, his arms splayed above his head and his face looking impossibly young. Phil had watched more than enough times as Clint had opened his eyes, an honest smile curling his lips that hadn't been touched by the horrors of that day. More than once, Phil found himself painfully wishing that he could be the one to put that smile on Clint's sleep-softened features. Now, Clint seemed way too tense to look like he could even briefly relax, let alone sleep deeply enough to give his body chance to repair itself as his eyes stared up blankly at the ceiling.

Phil wanted nothing more than to curl himself around that lean, warm figure, but the ingrained professionalism told him he had couldn't push Clint into any coerced situation that caused him discomfort. Letting out a deep sigh, Phil resigned himself to a night on the couch as he took a step towards the entrance of his adjoining living quarters, chastising himself for even thinking that Clint would want hi-

"Wait,"

Clint's voice, more nervous and small than he had ever heard it, cut through his thoughts, and Phil turned around to glance at him. The archer was gazing intently at him, propped up on his elbows as he bit compulsively at his bottom lip. The unintentional action was more than enough to draw all of Phil's attentions as he fought to restrain the full body shudder he wanted to give, so much so that if it wasn't for the fact that he was staring at Clint's mouth, he almost would've missed his quiet plea.

"Can you… Can you stay, please? I don't want to be alone."

Phil felt his heart break at the painful honesty wavering in Clint's tone, the Specialist becoming more and more tense the longer it took Phil to answer. Feeling his heart throb in his chest, Phil let a small smile cross his face as he walked back over to the bed, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible in spite of the faint heat frissoning low in his gut.

"Whatever you want, Clint."

Requesting for JARVIS to dim the lights down, Phil slid into the left side of the bed, barely an inch between their bodies as Phil reached down and pulled the thick, fresh duvet over both of them, revelling in the warmth that encased him. He could feel that lull settling over his head, his senses becoming fuzzy as he felt the overwhelming wave of sleep beginning to wash over him. Letting out a sigh, Phil felt Clint tentatively turn under the covers to face him.

Cracking open a lazy eye, Phil could see the questions blazing in Clint's features, the need and want for some kind of tactile comfort coming to the forefront. Reaching out his arm in invitation, Phil nearly let out a quiet laugh at the way Clint immediately moved into him, not needing to be told otherwise. His face buried in the hollow of Phil's collarbone, Phil felt the way that Clint's legs entwined with his. One of Clint's hands worked its way down Phil's side until he could wrap his fingers loosely around Phil's, whilst the other just rested against his chest.

Phil swallowed down the lump that abruptly made it hard to breathe as he closed his eyes; the way that Clint was clinging so firmly to his side reminded him too much of the way Clint had anchored himself to Phil's handcuffed figure between the episodes of torture. It was so intimate, so desperate for comfort and to be hidden from the world that Phil briefly felt himself falter before he slowly wrapped his free arm around the expanse of Clint's back, drawing him in even closer until it was impossible to work out where either of them started or ended.

His fingertips tracing intricate patterns into Clint's tender flesh, Phil became aware of Clint's breaths against his throat becoming steadier, calmer, until Phil noticed with a measure of profound relief that Clint was completely out of it, the tension falling away from his body until he was essentially moulded into Phil like a second skin. Spotting his watch on the side over the top of Clint's head – 0458 – Phil pressed his lips affectionately against Clint's forehead, letting out a contented sigh as he too gave into his exhaustion, his grip never loosening on Clint as he fell into the solace of sleep, hoping that nothing ruined the fragile peace either of them had managed to find.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: So, here's the next part! Hope you all enjoy it :)**

* * *

Despite Phil's want for nothing more than to spend the next morning lounging in bed with Clint wrapped in his arms, devoid of the shadows and pain that had masked his vulnerability as he'd snuggled his face deeper into the crook of Phil's throat, Phil knew that doing so would result in some big time chewing out from his already fearsome boss.

He'd spent the better part of 30 minutes managing to very carefully extract himself from Clint's limpet like grasp, Clint's arms wrapping tightly around Phil's crumpled pillow as he'd fallen back asleep with a sigh, before setting about getting himself ready for the day. He'd managed to wash, get dressed and his briefcase organised – all without inadvertently strangling himself in his sling either, which was definitely an improvement on the first couple of days - and was on his second cup of coffee by the time Clint had started to stir groggily.

It went about as well as could've been expected under the state of things; Clint had had a near full-on panic attack waking up in a place he didn't recognise, and Phil nearly got his wrist snapped from the way that Clint had grabbed him. Once Clint had belatedly realised whose bed he was in, and noticed the watch around the person's wrist, he'd immediately launched into a hysterical rush of apologies, Clint flinching violently as Phil touched his shoulder before he managed to restrain it. Phil had just bundled Clint up into his arms, trying not to take his lack of response or confidence personally as he soothed his frazzled nerves; it had taken a while until Clint pulled away, his face red with shame and embarrassment, and Phil had merely smiled at him as he helped Clint get ready.

Whilst Phil wished that the situation was miles better, the thought of being able to do this every day, to wake up to Clint intertwined ankle to shoulder with him and settle into a blissfully normal morning routine, was enough to make a ball of warmth burst in his chest as he'd wrapped his arms around Clint's shoulders, getting him through the Tower to the car waiting for them on the street without any major incidents. It was still pretty early in the day for anyone else to be up and about, and Phil found himself thankful for that; he wasn't sure either Clint or himself would be ready to put up with a barrage of questions and stares from the likes of Stark or Rogers right now.

The journey to SHIELD had been silently tense, Clint gradually withdrawing into himself the closer they got, and Phil instinctively reached his hand out to clasp Clint's, threading their fingers together and giving him a gentle squeeze of reassurance. Clint had responded in kind less than a heartbeat later, a grateful light filling his eyes, and Phil wondered when he had become at ease with the impulsive desire to intimately comfort his Asset. Once they'd reached HQ, Phil found it hard to keep his contact as impersonal as possible as he got Clint into the corridors, glaring threateningly at the junior Agents who stopped and stared gawping at the sight of Phil half carrying Clint to medical.

Most of the other Agents were wise enough to keep their distance, casting their gaze to the floors and respectfully acknowledging them; Phil didn't know whether that was out of fear for his reputation, or out of the heavy fear for Clint that had refused to disappear since Loki and New York, but he couldn't bring himself to care at that moment. The doors to medical swinging open, Phil could feel the way that Clint's fingers dug sharply into his shoulder, the only outward sign of his dislike and discomfort, and he breathed out a plea to relax as they were both approached by Dr Reinhart.

Reinhart was about one of the only doctors Clint even remotely trusted to come anywhere near him, and Phil let out a small prayer of relief that Clint wouldn't be made to feel any worse whilst he was down here.

"Agent Coulson, Barton," she addressed, her eyes visibly scolding Clint's condition as she signalled for a wheelchair to be brought over. "Don't worry, Sir, we'll get him patched up soon, just so long as he co-operates for once."

It was supposed to be light hearted, the smile on Reinhart's face betraying the irritated tone of her words, but Phil felt the way that Clint tensed, unwilling to relinquish his grip on Phil's shoulders. Lowering one of his hands, Phil let it creep underneath the hem of Clint's shirt, massaging the small of his back soothingly until he felt Clint go near boneless in his arms.

"Don't worry Clint, I'll be here, I'm not going to abandon you, I promise."

Clint seemed to visibly calm at the softly murmured reassurances; no longer protesting, although the bubble of panic that flitted in his eyes was enough to make Phil feel guilty, Clint reluctantly slid into the waiting wheelchair, gazing longingly at Phil as he disappeared around the corner. Before Phil had any chance to follow him, the door to the medical wing swung open, and he knew with a degree of certainty that there was about to be a spanner firmly thrown in the works.

"Agent Coulson," a firm, authoritative voice drawled, and Phil let out a gentle sigh as he turned to face Hill, nodding his head in a polite greeting.

She speculatively eyed him up and down, her eyebrow raised in a silent question that Phil knew would be stupid to ignore.

"I'm fine, I just came to deliver Agent Barton into the fine care of Dr Reinhart before he managed to do anymore damage to himself."

The look of understanding and sheer perceptiveness that coloured Hill's face as she briefly smirked at Phil was disturbing; she always had this uncanny way of knowing things before anyone else, even before that source of information had entered the building, and Phil felt his cheeks flush slightly under her scrutiny. Apparently satisfied with his answer, she let a small grin fall across her face as she stood her full height.

"I'm glad to hear it, Coulson. God knows that someone needs to take care of Barton. Whilst he's here, it might be beneficial to see whether or not he's prepared to finally speak to Psych about your last mission."

Phil knew that that would be a horrifically bad idea, but he inclined his head, not willing to get into an argument with Hill whilst Fury was in the building; he could hear the hint of doubt in her voice that suggested she also knew what the potential outcome of any unannounced Psych visit would be, but it was just a technicality at this point in time, especially considering the new insight Phil had received the night before from Clint himself.

"Anyway, I came down here for you, Coulson." Phil raised an eyebrow at her, rolling his shoulders back. "A few of the junior Agents needed their operative assessments and field-training simulations completed, and Sitwell's out on intel. It shouldn't take longer than a couple of hours, even with your current impairment."

The plea for help and agreement that Phil could hear beneath her otherwise level tone was enough to make him give a huff of amused exasperation; Hill would probably have gone crazy years ago if it wasn't for him being able to cover her back at the drop of a hat.

"Buy me a coffee, and I'll have it all sitting on your desk by 1400 hours."

Phil was confident that medical wouldn't be finished with Clint for at least a few hours, not if Psych were planning to pounce on him as well. Leaving a message with one of the orderlies to immediately call him if Clint was released before he returned, Phil followed Hill out, preparing himself for an afternoon of babysitting.

~x~

1400 hours couldn't roll around soon enough.

It was after watching such shambolic training simulations that Phil was glad being a level 7 Agent meant that he no longer had to worry about initial assessments and recruitment files. He didn't expect for such fresh junior Agents to be perfect by any stretch of the imagination - even he wasn't that naïve - but even he thought that Fury had to be getting desperate for new faces to fill the gaps left after New York if he was willing to accept the current wave of trainees as fit to work.

Their field reports had been even worse; Phil had taken a look at the overly rambling and nonsensical description that one recruit had verbosely dumped in their paperwork before throwing it into the bin in despair. It wasn't stressful, just depressing, but Phil somehow managed to muster together the will power not to go and drown himself in coffee; true to his word, a neat stack of records and reports were sitting on Hill's desk by 1400 hours sharp.

Checking his phone for the umpteenth time to make sure he hadn't missed any calls or messages from medical to say they were finished with Clint, Phil decided to make a detour to the canteen. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd eaten something, and he savoured the overly sweet and sticky sugar glazed donut between his mouthfuls of nauseatingly cheap crap that apparently passed for coffee. He hadn't intended to stay long, but a few minutes to relax turned into an impromptu conference with Hill and Fury on the potential – or lack of – amongst the new Agents, which turned into a long and awkward conversation regarding Hill's hypothesis on Clint and Phil's relationship and Phil gradually wishing the floor would swallow him whole.

There was nothing judgmental, or even cynical in their responses despite the disappointment that Fury had shown during their last meeting. It was almost more reminiscent of the sort of gossip you'd find at a high school, and Phil soon found himself feeling less embarrassed as he defended himself against their duel attack. Before he was even aware of the sheer length of time he'd spent on what was originally just supposed to be lunch, he was approached by one of the junior Agents, watching in silence as they cleared their throat nervously; hell, he'd have been nervous too if he found himself interrupting a chat between the SHIELD Director, Assistant Director, and top Senior Agent.

"Erm, excuse me Agent Coulson, sir?"

Now that Phil took a good look at the young man in front of him, he started to recognise him; one of the tactical marksmen, pretty good with a sniper rifle, potential to make a name for himself. "I'm very sorry to disturb you Sir, but Dr Reinhart sent me. Apparently Agent Barton disappeared from medical, and no-one can find him."

Phil violently cursed, Fury and Hill both startling at the uncharacteristic outburst as Phil pulled his phone out of his pocket; sure enough, there was four missed messages, going back over the last hour or so. Not even acknowledging the junior Agent who immediately scarpered, Phil pushed himself to his feet, pointedly ignoring the heavy gazes fixed on him as he downed the rest of his coffee in one mouthful.

"Sorry Sir," he quickly remarked across the table, "but I've got to sort this."

Fury's eyebrow arched right up, and Hill rolled her eyes, but they both nodded as Phil took off in the direction of medical. Feeling his own personal irritation building into general frustration that he was unable to mask, Phil barged into medical, spotting Dr Reinhart leaning over a stack of patient records.

"What the hell happened?" He asked, resisting the urge to be overdramatic and throw his arm up in the air.

Reinhart, to her credit, didn't appear fazed by Phil's appearance, not even bothering to look up from the notes in front of her.

"Agent Barton left of his own accord roughly two hours ago. He was more than fine to undergo physical treatment for his ankle and was willing to accept the painkillers and sleeping tablets that I prescribed for him. When Dr Knowles from Psych came down for an assessment of Agent Barton's mental and emotional health, Barton became agitated. He did complete Dr Knowles' psychiatric examination - which I wasn't expecting to be perfectly honest with you – and he sat through a full diagnostics debrief – which, by the way, I have sent to your email to stop you hacking our records anymore; you might be interested in reading when you get a spare five minutes in the near future – but when Dr Knowles went to retrieve a prescription of antidepressants and antianxiety tablets, Agent Barton discharged himself. As he had no physical injuries that needed treating, I had no choice but to let him leave."

She stared down her nose at him, a brief hint of coolness clouding the obvious worry and concern in her eyes.

"We did contact you when he left, but we received no response."

Completely ignoring the near miraculous revelation that Clint had actually talked to Psych until a later time when he could fully appreciate it, Phil roughly swallowed down the lump in his throat.

"Do you have any idea where he might have gone?"

Reinhart let out an audible sigh, shrugging her shoulders with an air of impatience.

"You have a better knowledge of him than I do, why don't you just search his usual haunts? The range might be a good place to start; you know how aggravated he gets after Psych."

The range; now why the hell hadn't he thought to consider there first? Berating himself for his own stupidity, Phil smiled widely at Reinhart, feeling the frantic beating of his heart start to calm.

"Thank you, Doctor."

She didn't even look up from the records she was reading, but he saw her suddenly reaching for something underneath her desk, and he glanced curiously at the proffered paper bag she dumped in front of him.

"That's all of his prescribed medication; there are a couple of sedatives in there as well in case they're needed. Just try and make sure that neither one of you end up back in here whilst I'm on shift, please?"

Grabbing the bag and shoving it into the pocket of his suit jacket, Phil gave a nod of thanks, seeing the weary smile of caution and sympathy she shot back at him before he left, making his way down to the range. As he made his way down the stairs, more and more bewildered Agents were walking past him in the opposite direction; some didn't appear surprised by his appearance, whilst a couple of the more experienced Agents looked at him with equal measures of relief and panic. He felt his gut instinct kicking in, telling him that he was heading in the right direction as he entered his clearance code to get into the basement.

Down here, there were only a couple of trainers and recruits on the pistol range farthest from the separate shooting range at the end of the narrow corridor, and they respectfully kept their heads lowered as Phil went marching past them. He instantly noticed the override that had been engaged on the keypad; Clint was the only person who was regularly able to hack into the main security base when he wanted some peace and quiet, and that reaffirmed Phil's suspicions.

Taking a deep breath to compose himself, stamping down on the fear and concern that was twisting his stomach into queasy knots, Phil scanned his ID card, thumbing in his personal security code and waiting for a tense few seconds. The red light flickered a few times before turning green, and he smiled faintly; at least Clint hadn't been able to – or at least hadn't wanted to – hack into his own database. Even Fury's had been hit by the archer when the mood took him. Whether this was a sign that Clint had been waiting for Phil to come and retrieve him, or that Phil was the only one Clint wanted to see, or even that Clint no longer gave a damn, Phil wasn't sure.

Sliding the door open as slowly as possible in order not to startle Clint – the last thing he needed was an arrow in the eye if Clint wasn't expecting him to turn up – Phil slipped inside, relocking the door behind him so that no-one else could get in or out. He knew it was cruel to try and trap Clint here, especially considering the aftermath of the Canada mission less than a month before, but Phil knew that it sometimes paid to be harsh when it came to Clint. One of them needed to be the strong one here, and Phil instinctively knew it had to be him. Clint was done hiding behind the walls and the masks; inside he was devastatingly vulnerable, and Phil knew that if he couldn't steer Clint out of whatever thoughts were going through his mind after his sudden Psych visit, then this was going to end very badly.

The air was thick with tension, the steady, repetitive thud of a bowstring releasing an arrow into the wall opposite doing nothing to dissipate the nerves that Phil could feel. Normally, he took great pleasure in sneaking down here and watching Clint train. There was something quite inordinately calming about the way Clint seemed to be at peace with a bow in his hands, and it was a nice break from the madness going on above their heads on the main levels of base. Now though, Phil felt anything but calm as he slowly walked through the gallery to the main range, the bright light flooding through and casting his shadow across the ground.

Clint was there alright; judging by the sheer number of broken arrows deeply embedded in the targets, the sheen of sweat running down the archers face, and the red streaks of blood flowing down the side of his hand from his unprotected fingers, Clint had been there for a while. Other than his fingers though, Phil couldn't see any other sign of injury or damage; his right ankle was plastered, and the cumbersome boot on his foot meant that he was obviously capable of bearing his weight a bit better, which made Phil give a small sigh of relief. Whilst Clint looked reasonably fine though, it wasn't his physical health that Phil was immediately concerned about.

Clint's shooting was frantic – bordering on manic - lacking any of the normal grace and precision Clint had when in the field. When one of his arrows ended up a full two inches from the bulls eye, Phil knew he had to intervene. Taking a heavy step forward, Phil immediately threw his hands up in a show of surrender when Clint turned on him, his arrow drawn and his breathing harsh. He froze when Clint made no move to lower his guard, feeling his heart start to thud in his chest; he'd never been stared down by an archer who looked ready and willing to put an arrow through him.

Clint's eyes were wide, the pupils blown with anger, pain, fear, depression and all kinds of things that Phil couldn't put a name to. Phil went to take a careful step forward, but instantly stopped in his place when an arrow went flying past to bury itself into the door a foot from his head. He sincerely hoped that Clint had meant to just spook him; if not, then he was beyond grateful that Clint was obviously too emotional right now to take care with his aim. Taking a deep breath, Phil tried again, keeping his movements as nonthreatening as he physically could when he saw the way that Clint reached down to his side, his hand quickly pulling another arrow out of the quiver standing by his feet and having it nocked and ready to release in a matter of moments.

Phil only became more and more tense the closer to the Specialist he got; from two metres away, it was possible to see the way Clint was favouring his injured shoulder, just how deeply cut his drawing fingers were as blood continued running down Clint's forearm, and Phil knew that this wasn't going to be easy. Coming to a stop less than a metre away, Phil could see the brewing conflict flashing through Clint's eyes, the protective barriers he was trying to rebuild as he kept his bow up. Phil instantly spotted the slight tremor in Clint's grip though, the way he seemed to almost shrink in on himself as Phil just stared at him, and Phil hoped that his voice didn't betray the spark of fear blistering low in his gut.

"Clint, I just came to talk to you. Why don't you just put the bow down, huh?"

It seemed almost as if Clint hadn't heard him as he made no effort to lower the missile he had pointed at Phil, his eyes narrowing slightly. Phil held his breath. He had his taser in his pocket, and he knew that Clint was aware of that fact too; whilst the situation seemed way too volatile and delicate to risk bringing in any sort of weapon, it didn't mean that Phil wasn't prepared to use it if he couldn't get through to his Asset. He just hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Time seemed to stop as they both squared up to the other, neither of them breaking eye contact. Phil could feel that steady throb of adrenaline and panic feeding into each other; this was worse than even the most hostile negotiations he'd entered into. Clint's arm pulled back just a fraction further, his gripping hand still shaking despite his best efforts to control the outward sign of nerves and exhaustion, and Phil wrapped his fingers tightly around his taser. Starting the slow count to ten inside his head, Phil let a hint of vulnerability and trust colour his expression; Clint's eyes glazed over, shimmering with the tears of frustration and aching that had to be running through him.

Phil reached eight before Clint lowered his bow, his gaze firmly fixed to the floor as the arrow he'd previously had aimed directly at Phil fell to the concrete with a soft clatter. Phil felt his knees go weak with relief, but he managed to remain upright as he took another tentative step towards Clint, his legs almost buckling at the way Clint stumbled backwards, letting his bow fall to the ground carelessly as he put distance between them. Clint ran a hand roughly through his hair, and when he snapped his head back up to glance at Phil, Phil could see the barely restrained pain and doubt threatening to overwhelm him.

"You lied to me."

The raw force behind Clint's whispered words was enough to knock all the air out of Phil's lungs as he frowned.

"What?" Phil replied without really thinking, racking his brains as hard as he could to see whether he could find anything that would suddenly make Clint close up on him.

Clint's face hardened, but Phil could hear the desperation and betrayal thickly coating his tone.

"I knew you were lying to me. So, you let me share your bed, you fucking kissed me twice, what, because you felt _sorry_ for me?"

Phil felt his blood run cold at the near frenzied distress that radiated from Clint, swallowing against the lump tightening his throat.

"Never, Clint, I swear. What makes you think that?" He asked numbly.

Clint's hand clenched spasmodically by his side, his breathing becoming shallower; it was like watching a wounded animal trying to defend themselves, and it made Phil sick to realise that he'd obviously done something to upset Clint this badly.

"You promised," Clint murmured, his tears overflowing and beginning to run down his flushed face.

Phil must have looked confused for a moment, because a sudden burst of anger infiltrated Clint's voice.

"You fucking promised me that you weren't going to leave, that you weren't going to abandon me! So what, you get one look at Pysch's report and decide I just wasn't worth it anymore? Did you read about all the shit I went through and decided to leave me there until I got the hint that nobody wanted me around?"

Clint's words were cut off with a sharp, choked sob; Phil, despite the alarm bells ringing in his head, immediately stepped closer to Clint, ruthlessly supressing the guilt he felt at the way Clint curled in on himself.

"I didn't want to leave! Hill needed me to do something, I was only supposed to be gone fo-"

Phil didn't see Clint's hand, but by God he felt it as it slapped him hard, the impact ringing in his ears.

His face snapped to the side, his hand instantly coming up to cradle his now burning, tender cheek as he staggered back a step. Disbelief rocked him to the core; in all the arguments and bitter fights they'd had in the past, Clint had never dared to lay a finger on him. He stood in stunned silence.

"Just, stop it! I get it; I should've known better than to think you actually cared for me. No-one ever gives a shit about me. All they ever see is the stupid child, who keeps his mouth shut, hits the targets and never, ever cries out whenever someone hurts him! They don't care if he's falling apart if it means that they get their sick thrills at the end of the day, or if he says no and they just laugh, telling you you're worthless! I get it, I fucking ge-"

"Clint, shut up!" Phil boomed, his shock and disbelief caving in under the weight of the fury he felt as he grabbed Clint's chin, forcing the now hysterical man into a terrified silence.

He was angry; angry at Clint for hitting him, angry at Clint for not trusting him, but angrier at the vicious way Clint was tearing himself apart. It was enough for all semblance of control to leave him as he invaded Clint's personal space, resting his forehead against Clint's; he ignored the agonising guilt that ripped through him when Clint's hands came up to push weakly at his chest, trying to push him away as his eyes widened under the fear that was overwhelming him. His eyes were devoid of all emotion, dark and forceful as he backed Clint up until his back hit the wall behind them; Clint broke into an all-out panic, his frantic whimpering making Phil feel ill, but Clint still didn't make a serious move to fight Phil off of him despite his obvious discomfort, and that got to Phil more than anything.

"Clint, just stop! Take a deep breath, okay?"

Phil could see just how chaotic Clint was becoming in his terror, his inhalations becoming faster and faster despite Phil's plea to calm down; his skin was paper white, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he let out a sob, and Phil could hear his frantic begging beneath his breath as he fell into the vice like grips of a full scale anxiety attack. Phil immediately reared back, letting go of Clint's chin, and Clint collapsed into a heap on the floor, curling his body tight over his knees as if trying to protect himself from the violence he thought was coming.

For the second time in a matter of moments, Phil felt himself stunned into silence. This time though, it was the horror of seeing Clint in such a state that made his stomach knot agonisingly tight. Dropping to his knees in front of the distraught archer when he realised the ramifications of his actions, Phil felt tears well up in his own eyes at the way Clint violently flinched back from him. He'd gone way too far this time, and he wasn't sure that he was going to be able to make things right.

Without being aware of it, Phil started to softly hum.

It wasn't a tune that Phil personally knew, but it was one that Clint did. When Clint had first been recruited to SHIELD, when he still suffered frequent flashbacks and panic attacks, he more than often found himself in high pressure situations that would've broken a lesser man with Clint's troubled past. Phil had always assumed the first couple of times that the low, patchy hum coming through his personal comm line was just static interference. It wasn't until Phil had noticed a pattern that he realised its significance.

Any time Clint had found himself trapped, or scared, or pushed to his very limits, Phil heard him humming the same, distinctive tune to himself. Phil had never asked, and Clint had never said anything, but Phil deduced that it had to be some kind of safety net for the archer, something that he could hold on to with both hands and remind him that he was still there. All Agents after a while in their line of work developed habits or compulsions that acted as a source of comfort, and the tune was obviously Clint's. Phil's eyes were screwed shut as he let himself hum the melody that had been ingrained into his memories and database of 'all things Clint Barton,' not wanting to look at Clint for fear of what he would see, but he could feel the difference in the air.

Clint quietened, his sobs eventually breaking, and Phil could feel the anger that had filled the range being replaced by a deep, bitter sense of depression and self-loathing. He still didn't stop though; he just carried on humming like it was the only thing keeping him sane. It kind of was at that point, helping to ruthlessly squash down the bile and guilt burning in his throat. As Phil hummed out the last note, he cracked open his eyes, visibly shivering at the helpless confusion and doubt clouding Clint's face as he let out slow, shuddering sighs that caught roughly in his throat.

He no longer looked angry or panicked, which was a small victory in Phil's mind; he just looked hurt, and Phil knew with painful certainty that it was his fault. Nervously reaching his hands out, Phil gave a bittersweet smile as Clint grasped them in his, their fingers casually tangling around each other's. They weren't as confident, or as comfortable as they had been in the morning. Phil had done too much to destroy what little progress he had made since the night before. It was an acknowledgment and an apology wrapped in one though, and as Clint seemed to come back to himself, a deep flush of shame crashing off of him in waves, Phil knew that Clint had accepted it.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hit you," Clint whispered, his tone thick and raw with vulnerability. "I just, I was just so angry, I… I…"

Phil shushed him, rubbing small circles with his thumbs into the clammy flesh of Clint's palm.

"It's okay, I'm not upset."

And he wasn't, if Phil was being honest with himself.

The heat in his cheek from the strength Clint put behind the smack had faded into a deep ache that Phil knew meant there was probably going to be some sort of bruise he'd have to explain tomorrow, but he wasn't upset. If anything, he was surprised it had taken Clint as long as he had to completely break. Clint didn't seem convinced though, his eyes still warily regarding Phil with a mix of fear and mistrust.

"I deserved it actually," Phil admitted, cringing as the memory of him forcing Clint into a panic attack came flying back. "I did a shitty thing to you just now, you were more than in the right to lash out the way you did."

Clint fell oddly silent at that, his eyes seemingly hollow despite the faint smile that curled his lips, and Phil knew that he was thinking about what had just happened. Unable to help himself, he gently lifted both of Clint's hands, pulling him forward to brush his lips affectionately over Clint's knuckles.

"We still need to talk about this, though."

A shadow fell over Clint's face, his shoulders slumping forwards.

"I know, Sir." Phil instantly shook his head.

"No, Clint, I'm not talking to you as your boss right now. I'm talking to you as a friend, as someone who's worried about you. I'm just Phil now, okay?"

After a couple of moments, Clint reluctantly nodded his head, obviously not really hearing a word of what Phil had just said. Phil was just satisfied at managing to get some kind of response out of his Asset, and smiled warmly as he heaved himself up to his feet, stretching out the pins and needles that had set into his muscles as he pulled Clint up as well. He instinctively went to catch the archer's weight before remembering the boot fitted onto his cast, instead resting his hand gently against the back of Clint's neck to guide him towards the door.

Briefly pausing to pick up the bow and arrows that had been knocked across the floor, Phil placed them back on the rack lining the back wall, failing to restrain the shiver that ran up his spine. He never wanted to see another arrow aimed at his head from point blank range again in his life. He just hoped that he never put Clint into the position again where he'd willingly considered the action as acceptable to protect himself. Letting out a sigh, Phil walked back over to Clint who hadn't moved a muscle, his eyes focused on the concrete beneath him, before he let his hand resume its soothing contact on the back of his neck.

Switching off the lights as they made their way back down the gallery towards the main ranges, Phil was thankful to find it was empty, slowing his pace down just slightly to fall into line with Clint. The cast meant that his movements were slightly stilted and awkward, and he kept subtly rolling his shoulder, indicating that he'd obviously overexerted himself, but Phil didn't say anything, trusting that if Clint was in any real pain, he'd let him know. Besides, he wasn't sure what Clint would do if he even thought about suggesting the possibility of going back down to medical after the last half an hour or so. Instead, he pulled his cell phone out of his back pocket as they both walked back up the flight of stairs into the main levels, sending messages informing both Fury and Hill that he was taking the rest of the afternoon off whether they liked it or not so he could look after Clint.

It took less than a minute to receive both replies, Hill wishing him luck and asking him to pass on her regards to Clint and Fury just telling him not to do anything stupid, and he smiled as he slipped his phone away. Despite being mid-afternoon, the corridors were reasonably empty of Agents, and the few that did seem to lurk instantly dispersed at the sight of Phil and Clint coming towards them. He didn't even bother trying to hide the concern on his face, or dropping his hand away from Clint's neck; let the juniors have a bit of gossip for their rumour mills and hushed chats over canteen tables, Phil didn't care anymore about them.

They passed Sitwell coming out of one of the debriefing rooms, and Sitwell just nodded respectfully. It wouldn't have shocked Phil if Fury and Hill had kept him in the loop about the events of the last couple of weeks or so. Sitwell raised his eyebrow, his fingers discreetly referencing the discolouration on Phil's cheek, and Phil just mouthed out 'leave it.' Sitwell seemed to understand, inclining his head and giving Phil a genuine smile as they continued on their way.

"Oh, Coulson, Romanov should be back soon; I'll fax through the paperwork for when you're ready. You might need to prepare yourself, she seemed pretty pissed earlier."

Phil winced at the thought of Natasha being in a bad mood; he already had enough on his plate trying to deal with Clint, let alone an angry super assassin. Actually, he wouldn't have been surprised if Natasha was annoyed because she'd heard something along the grapevine about Clint; that woman had eyes and ears everywhere, and Phil had his own suspicions about Natasha and Hill. Clint's shoulders had tensed slightly at the mention of Natasha, and Phil squeezed the back of his neck soothingly.

"Don't worry; I'm sure she isn't that angry."

Clint just snorted in response to the wariness in Phil's tone, and Phil didn't even restrain the chuckle he gave out. This was more like the Clint he expected, like the one that he knew, and it made the crushing weight in his chest release its grip just enough to make it easier to breath. A new found sense of lightness rounding the sharp edges off of his guilty conscience, Phil and Clint walked in companionable silence to the rank of cars waiting outside the main entrance.

Phil bit his lip, the quiet giving him a chance to think; he had majorly fucked up, and whilst Clint appeared to have recovered his composure after their confrontation, Phil wasn't willing to risk anything further. He'd already done enough damage for the day. Giving instructions to the luckless Agent playing chauffeur today to take them back to the Tower, Phil tried to reassess his strategies and work out where to go from here, his mind wandering whenever Clint brushed up against him.

His self-discipline falling into a state of temporary disarray, Phil just focused on the sensations of Clint next to him, hoping he'd think of something soon before anything got worse.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: So, yeah, I apologise for the slight delay in getting this up. My laptop decided not to co-operate with me in the slightest. Oh well, hopefully you all enjoy this part! Not much more to go now! :)**

* * *

The hive of activity and noise coming from the living room was more than enough to make both Phil and Clint realise that there was going to be no way to avoid the attentions of the others.

Whilst JARVIS hadn't stated the arrival of both the Agents in the lobby to the Avengers, Phil knew that at least one of them would've noticed the elevator descending to meet them. As it was, they were both staring straight ahead at the metal doors, steeling themselves for the inevitable barrage of questions and statements that would be directed at them – well, mainly Clint, seeing as no-one else had seen him in nearly three and a half weeks – the moment they were spotted.

Clint's shoulder were tightly squared, his fingers locked with Phil's down by his side in an attempt to hide the visible nerves he was showing. Phil hadn't said anything to Clint – he didn't know what he could say after the clusterfuck that was the shooting range – but he kept squeezing Clint's hand soothingly, his smile only growing wider every time Clint responded in kind. This quiet, discreet sort of intimate reassurance was one that suited them both better; there was no clumsiness or awkward declarations that could blow up in their faces, and Phil was just happy that Clint was willing to accept his touch or even him being in the same enclosed space after what he'd done.

The elevator came to a shuddering halt, Phil withdrawing his hand with one final embrace. Clint straightened his shoulders, trying to project an air of confidence to mask the doubt and the discomfort that Phil could still clearly see, and Phil just took a deep breath, steadily releasing it when the door eventually slid open and they walked out into the living room.

Less than a split second later, the unavoidable happened.

"Holy fuck, is that you Cupid? Where's Agent kept you hidden? I was beginning to wonder if you even still existed."

As the sound of Stark's voice called out from the kitchen, Banner and Rogers both stretched to turn and look over the back of the couch they'd been sat on; one look at both Phil and Clint, and they were immediately on their feet, closing in on them as they offered their own greetings. Clint went rigid next to Phil, and it took all of Phil's self-control not to reach out and grab him as he deflected the random questions and curious stares they directed at them in order to make his way into the kitchen. Clint looked as if he was determined to follow, but before he could move, Stark had jovially thrown his arm around Clint's shoulders, dragging him over to the couch with the promise of some bad television and a few new arrow heads he'd been working on.

Phil had noticed the way Clint had flinched under Stark's touch, his breathing briefly faltering from its previously steady rhythm. The way that Rogers raised an eyebrow in silent questioning at Phil suggested that he'd noticed that something was off, but it didn't seem like he was actually going to ask; Phil was more than grateful for the Captain's lack of probing. He wasn't sure how he'd be able to explain the nature of the situation and the vague details of the mission to Rogers; it would be difficult to explain it to any of them if they asked, but expecting a man decades out of his own time to understand the ways and foibles of the world now would be an especially uncomfortable discussion.

Pouring the hot water into the mugs he'd pulled out – one with the amazingly rich coffee that Stark seemed to keep on tap just for him, and the other with one of Natasha's herbal green teabags that Clint seemed to be rather fond of whenever he was stressed – he managed to balance them both in his left hand, steadying them against the edge of his cast as he sat down in his usual position on the couch, smiling at the profound gratefulness and thanks that Clint gazed back at him with. With a sudden burst of energy that Phil knew was nothing more than a façade to try and keep the others off his back, Clint kicked both his feet up to rest on the coffee table, flipping the bird at Stark when he protested about how disgusting it was to put his dirty feet up where they eat. If anyone else noticed the slight shaking in Clint's hand, or the fake exuberance he forced himself to laugh with when Stark clapped his hand against his back, welcoming him back into the group in his own special way, then they weren't going to comment on it.

"God lord, Barton, we need to get some meat back on those bones before Coulson makes us write up the paperwork on how we starved you to death. JARVIS, get onto that nice pizza place around the corner," Stark announced, glaring at the collective groans and moans that he got from the others.

Banner shifted forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he glanced over the table conspiratorially at Phil. Rogers and Stark were too caught up in arguing the nutritional benefits of eating take-out for the fourth time that week to notice the low conversation taking place just across from them.

"How's he doing?" Banner asked quietly, his already soft baritone meaning that no-one else could hear him over the sound of the others.

Phil let out a sigh, his eyes drifting over to watch Clint; out of his periphery vision, he could see the sympathy and concern painted into the scientist's face.

"Not great," Phil admitted honestly, not worrying about letting Banner become privy to the background context. He knew that Banner would respectfully keep any information or thoughts to himself, and he came to appreciate the rapport he'd built up with Banner during their late night talks.

"But he'll get there, even if it kills me."

A faint smile crossed Banner's face as he inclined his head, and Phil felt a small bubble of tension begin to disperse at knowing there was someone else he could chat to who wouldn't be too judgmental of the mistakes he'd made. A moment of understanding passed between them before it was broken by the sound of Stark loudly protesting about Clint's apparent decision to side with Rogers in the great pizza debate, and Phil let his eyes linger on Clint. Clint caught his stare, torn between the decision to stay and pretend he was okay or to escape whilst he could, and Phil felt that fist clench around his heart again.

It probably was going to kill him, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to try.

~x~

Finally, the arguments and conversations bubbled down into the background as they all settled into watching the television. Stark was holding court with Clint and Banner about some new gadgets; Clint still had that look of fear and nerves in his eyes at the way Stark kept randomly grabbing him, both Tony and Steve seeming to flank him protectively against some hidden threat, and Phil had to keep squashing down the urge to ask them to back off and give Clint some space. The look that crossed Banner's face suggested that the scientist was concerned about the same thing that Phil was, but Banner eventually just settled back into the couch with his glass in his hand.

It was his subtle way of telling Phil that he wasn't going to get involved, and Phil wasn't overly surprised. Banner still wasn't big on jumping into situations that could potentially turn quite messy, especially when Stark was present; the last shouting match had led to half the lab being destroyed. Phil just kept his eyes focused on Clint the entire time, shrugging off the way that Steve kept furtively flicking his gaze between the two of them. Clint, other than the faint 'mmm' and 'sure' that he spoke – most likely to keep Stark happy – was just sat there in silence.

They'd been eating their way through a mountain of pizza, Clint barely picking at the slice of pepperoni he'd been nursing for near half an hour, when Natasha had arrived a couple of hours later.

The atmosphere instantly changed, the irritation and stress falling off the assassin in spades as she completely ignored the huddle of bodies surrounding the piles of pizza boxes, going straight through to the kitchen.

"Right," Tony clapped his hands together loudly, and everyone noticed the way that Clint seemed to jump out his skin from the sound. No-one must have thought anything seriously wrong about it though as they rolled their eyes collectively. "I'm going down to robotics before I end up as pizza topping. Banner, you in?"

Banner just laughed roughly, shaking his head softly; whilst Phil knew that being in the presence of a pissed off Natasha was never anyone's idea of a good time, being in the presence of Tony Stark wasn't much better. Stark obviously wasn't going to take no for an answer, rounding the back of the couches and physically trying to push Banner to his feet.

"Wrong answer, buddy. Besides, I need an extra set of eyes, and potentially some big, ugly green back-up if this experiment goes haywire."

Banner groaned, briefly glancing up at the ceiling as if JARVIS could help him out of this, before he gave in.

"Fine," he grumbled, knowing that there was no real way of being able to change Stark's mind once he was set on his path.

"Atta boy!" Stark called, throwing his arm across Banner's shoulders as he fled the room as fast as possible, the sound of the discussions gradually quietening until the low hum of the television filled the room again.

Phil, Clint and Steve all shared a look, a cross between amusement and worry, before Natasha appeared in the doorway, a mug of green tea in her hands. Phil winced slightly at the sight of her; she looked exhausted, her hair roughly tousled and her field uniform covered in dust and grime – never a sign of a good mission. Before he could say anything to her though, she immediately honed in on the figure slumped next to Steve. Swiftly crossing the room, she sat down where Stark had been a few moments beforehand, putting her cup on the table as she very gently placed a delicate hand against Clint's shoulder. Clint's body seemed to tense at her touch as he turned reluctantly to look at her, his eyes wide and dark.

She just stared back at him; an entire conversation seemed to pass between them without either of them opening their mouths, and Phil briefly felt that knot in his stomach again. They were both so alike in so many ways, so trusting and open with each other, that it made Phil envious. Whilst he knew that Clint and he were close, he'd never be able to read and understand him the same way that Natasha could; he felt a dull throb in his chest. Whilst he knew that it was wrong on so many levels, those protective instincts rising up within him were selfishly pouting, telling him that it should be him giving Clint that reassurance; taking a deep breath, he grabbed his mug of coffee, the feel of the china in his hand giving him something to hold so that the sporadic clenching of his hand wouldn't be noticeable to anyone else.

When Natasha and Clint did start to talk, it was in Russian; for some reason that just made Phil feel worse. He wasn't sure why; they frequently conversed in Russian if they wanted to discuss something privately without going through the hassle of finding a secure location. Clint's Russian was surprisingly good – hell, his linguistic ability in general was stronger considering how poor the rest of his education had been. Phil had had to teach Clint how to read and write above a remedial level, but Clint could speak six different languages to varying degrees of fluency. Apparently, the number of different people at the circus meant that he had to learn, even if it was just enough to ensure that he didn't end up in trouble.

He didn't like it when he was kept out of the loop though, or when he couldn't understand something happening right in front of his face. Phil's Russian was basic at best – both Natasha and Clint had tried to teach him some in the past when they had had nothing else to do – but he knew enough to recognise some words and broken fragments of sentences. He heard his name being mentioned, he saw the way that Clint's stare drifted to rest on him, his eyes glazed over and hollow, and the tightening in his chest became too much to stand.

He pushed himself to his feet, walking straight into the kitchen without daring to look back. He knew that Clint had been watching him, and from the wavering softness behind Natasha's next words, he knew that Clint had obviously reacted to Phil's leaving in some way, but he ruthlessly ignored the guilt gnawing away at him as he leant over the sink. The lights of New York were brightly flickering against the inky sky, the scene normally one that helped to calm Phil to no ends, but he just sighed. He could hear the hushed whispers being exchanged in the living room, the creaking of the couch as someone pushed themselves up, and as the gentle thud of footsteps coming closer to the kitchen door became louder, Phil steeled himself, his shoulders becoming tense as he took a deep mouthful of coffee.

"Romanov isn't going to hurt him."

The sympathy and concern that was carried on the honeyed, smooth tones only made a lump come in Phil's throat as Steve stood next to him, his arms folded across his chest and a bare foot resting against the cupboard behind him.

"I know," Phil replied, a hint of defensiveness bristling in him that immediately died when Steve just raised an eyebrow at him.

They stood in comparative silence, neither of them really willing to broach the elephant in the room as they drank their drinks. The sheer presence and authority pouring out of Steve though was enough to make Phil feel impotent. Steve seemed to ooze everything that Phil had to work for so naturally, and whilst Phil normally found that part of the charm and appeal behind the Captain, now it just made him feel like an awkward teenager again, trying and failing to walk in the footsteps of his idol.

"There's no shame in admitting weakness, Sir. Too many men were brought to their knees by their regrets and pride behind enemy lines for it to be such a bad thing."

Phil snorted bitterly, not able to look Steve in the eye. "Yeah, but isn't the same. Me admitting weakness wouldn't get me some kind of award; being compromised ends careers now, especially in our line of work. Weakness is worse than failing."

Steve took a sip of water, contemplating his words carefully.

"It's Barton, isn't it?"

Phil finally met Steve's gaze, his heart thudding in his chest.

"What?"

Phil most certainly didn't jump when Steve wrapped a free hand around his shoulder, guiding him over to the breakfast bar so that he could take a seat before he ended up on the floor. Steve sat opposite him, staring down at his hands for a moment before glancing back up at Phil, his voice not betraying any sense of judgment or disgust.

"The reason why you've been unable to stop looking at him like you think he's going to disappear if you close your eyes for more than a second. The reason you got so emotional when he was released from medical. You care about him."

Phil shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, desperately hoping that the nerves and panic he was feeling didn't come out in his voice.

"He's my Asset, I'm his handler. Of course I care about him."

Steve just raised his eyebrow again; if anyone else had looked at him like that, then Phil knew they would've been calling 'bullshit,' but Steve wasn't like anyone else at SHIELD. If anything, he felt more chastised and guilty, his head seeming to duck slightly in shame from the gamut of emotions Steve showed in that one simple gesture.

"That's the point, Coulson. This is much more than just a simple Agent thing."

Phil didn't have anything to say to that. He couldn't defend himself, and he couldn't bring himself to lie to Captain America of all people. A bittersweet smile faintly curled his lips.

"It doesn't matter. I just make things worse."

"I think you're wrong."

Phil nearly choked on the mouthful of burning hot coffee in his mouth, eyeing Steve sceptically.

"When you spend so long with the same person, learning what makes them think the way they do, you might say some things that cause pain; you might do some things you regret in the heat of the moment," Steve paused, pointedly gazing at the bruise on Phil's cheek. "But you can never truly make things worse. You and Barton, you're so much like soldiers. You spend so much time relying on that one person to have your back, trusting others with your life, that eventually it becomes impossible to notice when your professional duty became your personal goal."

A ghost of a shadow fell over Steve's face.

"Just like you and Bucky?" Phil flatly intoned, feeling that ball of guilt in his chest gradually start to dissipate.

Steve smiled fondly, an edge of pain underlining the reminiscent glow in his eyes. "Yeah, just like me and Barnes."

They both fell into a comfortable silence, the gravity and the implication of the conversation they were having still weighing heavily on their minds as they drank.

"So, maybe you're right," Phil admitted softly, watching the steam rise from his coffee as if it was the most engaging thing in the world. "But it doesn't change anything, does it? Clint doesn't trust me like he used to. He's been through hell and back just because he wanted to protect me, and yet I can't even tell him the truth."

Steve seemed to ponder the situation for a few minutes. "Well," he started slowly, "have you ever thought to just tell him the truth?"

Phil laughed, the sound coarse and unnatural as he ran a hand down his face.

"Don't you think I've tried that? I couldn't even react when Clint told me how he felt in that hell-hole, I'm that much of a coward."

"You are not a coward," Steve immediately shot back, his voice thick with promise. "You are a braver man than most I've met in my life."

Phil couldn't help the weak smile he gave; the awkward teenager inside him was practically hysterical with pride.

"This is not a normal situation; I understand that. I couldn't say to James how I felt, and I regret that. I know that it's no longer the 1950's, and that the world doesn't frown upon love like it used to, but I know that there are still people out there who disapprove. Different decades, still the same war though."

Phil nodded his head respectfully, admiring the strength and conviction behind Steve's words despite the pain that lanced through him; even Steve seemed better at this than he did. Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Phil let out a sigh, glancing sadly at Steve.

"But what can I do? Even without worrying about Clint, something like this basically throws my entire career into jeopardy. Forget all the non-fraternisation regulations, but how can I be trusted in the field if I'm compromised by the thoughts about what could happen to him, or if I make a bad call? Then there's the rest of the Agents, and I'm sorry to tell you, but they wouldn't all be sending cards and rolling out the welcome mat if me and Clint walked in holding hands or whatever."

Phil knew that his words were gradually becoming more frantic, his breathing becoming less steady as the stream of possibilities and fears came flooding to the forefront of his mind, but he couldn't help himself. With all due respect to the man, Steve seemed to be looking at this entire thing with such an air of naivety and simplicity, and Phil felt as lost as he had when Clint had confessed his feelings to him in the first place.

"But will it matter if you're happy?" Steve asked bluntly, and Phil felt all the panic that had been coursing through him disappear in the wake of his confusion. Phil must have looked how he felt, because Steve took a deep breath before continuing. "Maybe you're looking into the negatives too much. Sure, there's always the chance that people might not be accepting, or that they might watch your missions just a little bit closer to ensure that you're making all the right decisions, but is it worth using those as excuses to continue living in fear?"

Phil wrung his fingers together around the cup in his hands, a sure sign of his uncertainty. Maybe he was overanalysing the risks, focusing too much on the 'what ifs' instead of the possibilities sitting right in front of him, but that didn't mean they weren't there. It didn't help either that he might have been wishing for something that couldn't happen; just because Clint said that he loved him, and just because they had shared a couple of kisses, didn't necessarily mean that Clint was after a relationship with him. The throbbing bruise on his cheek could be proof of that, and that was before Phil had even had the chance to look at the Psych report. Whilst he hated the idea of using Clint's mental and emotional state against him, Phil wasn't going to launch into anything if there was even the slightest chance that Clint was being coerced into it, or that he was vulnerable.

Phil shuddered, a brief flare of nausea rising in his gut; this was why he liked to know all the options available before making a decision. Stamping down on the mirage of questions that were threatening to spill out, Phil looked earnestly at Steve, settling on the one that stood out in amongst the blur in his mind.

"So, what do you think I should do?"

Steve lowered his head slightly, gazing at Phil with equal measures of sympathy, understanding and authority as he downed the last of the water in his glass.

"I'm sorry, Coulson, this is something I can't give you an order for. It's ultimately down to you to decide what you think the right course of action is from here."

Phil deflated at the non-committal tone, but before he could do anything else, Steve continued speaking.

"If you want my advice though, just go and talk to him. Tell him the truth. Put the ball in his court, and just go from there. This might be one of those times when you underestimate just what Barton is made of."

Phil smiled warmly, grateful when Steve's words of wisdom seemed to clear the muddied thoughts that were lurking in his mind.

"Thanks, Captain."

Steve responded in kind, reaching out a hand to grasp one of Phil's shoulders gently.

"It's no problem, Sir. I know that Agent Romanov is probably saying the same things to Barton right now."

Phil groaned; he'd overlooked the possibility that Natasha and Clint were discussing exactly the same conundrum that they were. Whilst he knew that Natasha would probably be encouraging Clint to talk to him, even the thought that Clint could've told her about everything that happened in the shooting range, about their argument and Phil sending Clint into a panic attack despite knowing he was upset, made him fear for his life. Whilst she most likely would've given Clint a few insults and sternly worded warnings about hitting Phil and threatening him with an arrow through the skull for no reason, it didn't mean that she would go any lighter on him, especially after their conversation a few nights before.

Steve just laughed as he stood up, grabbing Phil's now empty cup as he went and depositing both in the sink.

"I'm sure it'll be fine, Sir."

As he walked away, Phil let his forehead fall overdramatically onto the table with a thud; he could hear a second voice, much softer and more delicate, suddenly in discussions with Steve. He didn't lift his head even when he heard his name being mentioned, although he did jerk up when he felt something hit him. Snapping his head up, he glared indignantly at the wet teabag that had landed in his hair, before glancing up to see Natasha standing beside Steve. She seemed relaxed enough, but Phil could see the hint of anger and exasperation in her eyes, and he shuddered.

"Don't worry, Coulson, I'm not going to hurt you."

The '_yet'_ hung heavily between them, and Phil winced under her stare.

"All I'm saying is that if you don't go and sort this out, I'll make you sure you end up with much worse than a bruise and an arrow in your eye."

Phil resisted the urge to protest under their duel attack, rolling his eyes with a huff as he got to his feet.

"Oh yeah, side with the others against me, why don't you? I'm your superior, where's my respect?"

Despite the gruffness of his words, he knew that Steve and Natasha would realise he wasn't actually annoyed with them. Steve just laughed as he walked back into the living room, and Natasha just stared at him. As he got closer to her, Phil could see the deep lines carved into her normally calm face, the visibly tangible emotions that flashed in her eyes, and he felt a brief spark of gratefulness that he had her around to help him out with this.

"Don't worry," she started softly as she brushed the tips of her fingers against the bruise on Phil's cheek; Phil shivered at the intimacy of the touch coming from such a normally reserved and private woman, and he could see the sympathy that she couldn't verbalise as she took a step back to look at him properly. "I'm sure that Clint will think twice before ever laying a finger on you like that again, or before ever daring to hold a weapon up at you, but I'm still pissed that you even considered to confront him like that after everything that's happened."

If Phil had felt chastised by Captain America, then he felt more than ashamed of himself under the weight of the icy glare directed at him by the Black Widow.

"I know, and I'm so sorry for doing that to him."

She rolled her eyes, before surprising him even further by pulling him into a brief hug; the affection couldn't last though, and Phil pouted at the slap around the head she gave him.

"I'm sure you won't. I'm not joking though, and neither is Steve. Just go and talk to him, for the good of both of you, because I swear that if you keep dancing around each other like this, then I will not be responsible for what I have to do to the two of you."

Phil went to open his mouth, until he shut it again, realising that there wasn't anything he could really say; whilst there was a small part of him that wanted to bristle at the fact that he had apparently just received the shovel talk off of both Natasha – expected – and Captain America – totally not expected – he felt almost profoundly relieved at the fact that he had the two of them there to help him at times like this. Some of that gratefulness must have come across in his eyes, because Natasha just laughed at him.

"Come on, Coulson, we better go and make sure that Stark isn't pestering Banner too badly."

When they walked back into the living room, Clint wasn't there. Phil couldn't say that he was shocked at that; if Clint had just been chewed out by Natasha during the process of having a heart to heart – neither of which Clint tended to react to very well – then Clint was probably hidden somewhere. The roof, or the specially installed archery range would've been his best guesses, and when JARVIS confirmed that Clint was up on the roof, Phil felt some of his nerves dissipate.

He knew better than to go and confront Clint now, especially with the memories of their last talk still vividly flashing through his mind; there were some things he needed to find out first. He needed to be prepared. He needed to be ready for anything that could happen.

"Actually, 'Tash," Phil breathed out, the use of Clint's nickname for her instantly making her pause and look at him, "There's a few things I've got to sort out first."

She raised an eyebrow at him, but it seemed as if she understood, because after a brief few moments, she nodded her head, continuing down on route to the labs. Left alone in the living room, with only the background sound of the television to break the otherwise tense silence that had fallen around him, Phil grabbed his briefcase, before settling himself down on the couch. He knew that JARVIS would warn him if anyone else came close to the room whilst he had confidential documents and files out, so he didn't bother to be secretive as he pulled out his laptop.

Logging into the network, Phil went to his inbox; apparently, the hundreds of emails that he'd been sent in the space of one afternoon meant that either no-one else knew that he was taking the afternoon off, or SHIELD would just fall apart without him. Sifting through the requests, and mission reports, and the various conversations he'd been CC'd into, Phil eventually managed to find what he was after. He smiled slightly at the title, "We'd appreciate it if you asked in future before hacking into our systems," before opening the attachment with a sense of trepidation growing in his stomach.

He was used to reading Psych reports; hell, he'd read more than enough in the past regarding Clint – the archer was a magnet for Pysch's and trouble – but this one made his heart uncomfortably skip a beat. This one seemed more important and potentially damning than any that had been compiled in the past, and if Phil's hands began to tremble as the report filled his screen, then at least no-one else was around to see it.

Taking a deep breath, Phil settled himself back into the couch, thankful for the privacy as he started to read.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: So, yeah, there's only one more part after this. Nearly there! Hopefully you all enjoy it :)**

* * *

It took him nearly three and a half hours.

Three and a half hours where he felt physically ill as he finally found out the truth behind some of the abhorrent acts of torture that Clint had gone through and the life-threatening injuries that he had sustained.

Three and a half hours when he came to the startling realisation about just how important he obviously had to be to Clint for Clint to put himself through all of the pain and agony.

He re-read it twice, just to make sure that there was nothing written that escaped his scrutiny, and then a third time just to understand the gravity of the situation he had been involved in for the last few weeks since Clint had been released from medical.

He was physically shaking when he finally closed the document, the professional in him going through the mechanical routines of filing the report in Clint's personnel file whilst the human being inside his head was too busy freaking out about the various possibilities and problems that could await him when he finally went to talk to Clint.

At least he understood the reason why Clint had reacted the way he had that night in his room whilst Phil had been checking his wounds; discovering that Fury and medical's vile suspicions were true had been enough to make him see red, wishing all sorts of violence and destruction on those of Cooper's ranks who'd managed to flee when SHIELD had stormed the warehouse.

Knowing the depth of the horrors they'd inflicted upon Clint made him angry beyond words, but it was strangely comforting; at least he knew what he was dealing with, and he could plan for the multitude of ways that Clint could potentially respond to any and all touches or triggers. At least Phil knew certain phrases or words to avoid, ones that Clint had mentioned in his assessments as being used by his torturers, or certain movements and quirks that they'd used in order to try and psych Clint out whilst he was in their hands.

Whilst he couldn't deny that he felt violently ill and upset at finally knowing the truth and reading everything that Clint had admitted happened to him in those long days, in some weird way, he felt better. He felt like he had overcome one of the major hurdles that could've stood in the way of the two of them being able to make any sort of progress, and that was good enough for Phil as he closed the laptop, placing it carefully back in his briefcase.

Letting out a deep sigh as he wiped shaky hands down his face, Phil just sat in silence, trying to collect his thoughts and stamping down on the emotions that were threatening to rear their ugly heads. The sound of his breathing helped to calm him as it fell back into a steady rhythm, and once Phil was certain that he was going to be able to get through anything Clint could possibly throw in front of him, he cleared his throat.

"JARVIS, could you let me know Agent Barton's current whereabouts."

"Sir, I apologise that I am unable to give an approximate location for Agent Barton as he looks as if he has gone into the Tower's ventilation systems. However, judging by audio feedback and the thermal readings I have collected, it appears that he might possibly heading in the direction of your quarters, Agent Coulson. Would Sir like me to implement any safeguarding procedures?"

Phil smiled briefly at the concern that he could've sworn had made its way into the AI's tone; he felt a fuzzy warmth spread through him at the thought that Clint was searching for him, before realising with some disappointment that he probably wasn't searching for him for the same reasons as Phil.

"No need, JARVIS. Just let me know if anyone else looks like they'll be heading up to disturb us."

He doubted anyone would, seeing as it was coming close to 2300 hours, but he could never tell with the type of people that lived in the Tower. He'd once been woken up at 2 in the morning by Thor bringing him some celebration gifts from a massive feast on Asgard to mark the 'presence of a new warrior child into the realms.'

Whilst Thor was currently in Asgard for some major event, which meant the chances of him appearing were near to non-existent, that didn't mean that Stark, or Natasha wouldn't randomly drop in for a visit.

"Of course, Sir."

"Thanks JARVIS, I'll let you know if there's anything else I need."

Grabbing his laptop, Phil pushed himself to his feet, switching off the television that he'd almost forgotten was still on before walking to the door. The lights dimmed behind him automatically, and he took a deep breath, pulling his shoulders back in an attempt to appear confident even though he felt anything but as he started the long walk to his room.

Deciding to take the stairs, purely because it gave him a few more precious minutes to think about what he was going to do, Phil eventually reached his door. It was locked, but that didn't mean anything; unlike Natasha, Clint had an alternative route to get around by.

Letting himself in, Phil took a couple of moments to scan the room, noticing with a growing sense of relief that Clint wasn't hidden there. Although he knew that Clint could potentially arrive at any moment, especially considering the fact that JARVIS had lost track of him for what was apparently a while, Phil took the chance to start sorting himself out, dropping his briefcase into the bottom of his wardrobe.

Shrugging off his suit jacket, Phil hung it back in its place before loosening his tie, leaving it dangling across his shoulders as he toed off his shoes and socks. He'd gotten as far as undoing the buttons of his shirt – one-handed still, but much more easily than previously – when he heard noises coming from the air vent above his room.

Perching himself on the edge of his bed, not caring for his state of undress, Phil took a deep breath, counting down from five in his head. Right to the second, with a comforting sense of familiarity, Phil heard the heavy thud of Clint dropping out of the vents to land on his living room floor.

The soft hiss of "shit" made Phil wince slightly as he realised that dropping a good ten foot onto a bad ankle was probably going to hurt quite a lot, but before he could even consider getting up and going to check on him, Clint was standing in his doorway, gazing at him with something unreadable clouding his vision.

Time seemed to stand still, the air becoming charged with tension. Something else seemed to undercut the heaviness that charged the atmosphere, but before he could try and work out what that was, Clint had crossed the room.

His brain running way behind his body, Phil had no time to react before Clint had wound his hands around Phil's tie, pulling him into a bruising kiss. This was completely different to the other times; there was no sense of tentativeness or shyness in the way that Clint's lips moved against his.

This was almost desperate, Clint giving Phil no chance to recover his breath as he bit his bottom lip harshly, startling a moan out of Phil as he felt Clint's tongue pushing for entry. Despite Phil's best efforts, he couldn't help but succumb to the frantic desire he could feel crashing from Clint, his hands roughly grasping at Clint's hips for any scrap of support he could find as he responded just as messily, their lips and tongues fighting for dominance.

This was what Phil had dreamt about; this was the spontaneous rush of passion and lust that he had always imagined Clint would kiss him with, and Phil could feel the heat starting to unfurl low in his gut when he yanked Clint closer, his hands sliding around to grasp at the swell of Clint's ass.

Clint's hips bucked at the contact, his knees resting against the edge of the bed as he ran his hands possessively across Phil's shoulders, pushing his shirt down his arms as he tried to touch as much skin as physically possible. Phil felt like he could barely breathe, his entire world reduced down to heat and sensation as his fingers groped hard, unyielding flesh.

Their lips never broke apart, even as Clint roughly shoved Phil onto his back, climbing over his until he was straddling Phil's waist, his hips grinding down hard as Phil felt the blood rush to his groin. It wasn't until Clint's mouth began to trail down his throat, biting roughly at the tender flesh as his fingers caressed down Phil's chest that Phil's brain began to catch up with him and the alarm bells started ringing.

"Clint," he moaned breathily.

He gasped when Clint sunk his teeth into a particularly sensitive spot at the hollow of his throat, his palms running down the planes of Phil's abdomen as his stomach muscles clenched. Phil's hand automatically came up to cradle the back of Clint's head as he thrust up against the roll of Clint's hips, his eyes starting to slat in pleasure, but when he felt Clint's fingers begin to trip over themselves at the button and zipper to his pants, he tightened his grip in Clint's hair, forcing the younger man to look up at him.

"Clint, _stop_, we can't do this."

He hated just how rough his voice came out, betraying the concern behind his words. Clint's fingers and hips reluctantly halted in their movements, Clint burying his face in the crook of Phil's neck as the sound of their panted breaths rang out through the silence of the room.

"Please, Phil," Clint whispered huskily, but Phil could clearly hear the plea in Clint's tone as he started running soft kisses up the side of Phil's throat. "Just, give me this."

His teeth caught the shell of Phil's ear, his warm gasps of air bathing Phil's skin as he rocked his hips.

"We, we can talk afterwards," he murmured, before pulling away to look straight down into Phil's eyes.

Clint's pupils were blown to the point that all the colour was gone; his skin was flushed and slick with sweat, and the stare he fixed on Phil was one that Phil could only describe as desperate. He looked the picture of lust and debauchery, gazing at Phil as he had become the centre of his existence, and Phil bit his lip.

He most certainly hadn't been prepared for this, but he should've known better than to try and second guess Clint Barton.

"I don't care what happens after this, I don't care if you never want to see me again, or if you want to transfer, but please, just let me have this one thing, because then I won't care what the world decides to do to me. I'll have the only thing I ever wanted out of it, even if it's only once."

Phil felt like his heart had cracked open in his chest at the raw vulnerability oozing out of Clint; barely giving it a split second of thought, Phil slid both hands up the length of Clint's back, feeling the way the Specialist arched into his touch.

Reverently holding Clint's face in his hands, Phil pulled him back down, kissing him with every ounce of emotion and determination he could muster. It was not as messy or explosive as their last kiss, but the overwhelming wave of lust and passion that crashed through Phil as their mouths moved against each other was enough to send Phil over the brink.

Regaining his confidence, Clint finished undoing the buttons on Phil's pants, leaving them hanging open as his fingers skated inside to cup Phil's growing erection through his underwear, the heel of his hand rubbing down against the length in a way that had Phil seeing stars as he bucked his hips up helplessly, desperately seeking more of that delicious friction.

Clint's moan was swallowed up by his lips as their hips ground together, eventually finding their rhythm as they rutted against each other frantically, and Phil's fingers dug into the back of Clint's neck hard when Clint roughly sucked his bottom lip between his teeth.

Scratching his nails down his Asset's back, Phil grabbed the hem to his shirt; Clint gave one last squeeze to Phil's cock as he withdrew his hand from his pants, leaning back onto his knees as he pulled the shirt up over his head and threw it somewhere on the floor.

Phil propped himself up on his elbows, gazing hungrily at the smooth, toned flesh revealed to him as Clint popped the button on his jeans, rolling them down off his hips until they sat midway down his thighs. The thick, full outline of his erection through his underwear was enough to make Phil's mouth almost instinctively water; he may not have done this before, but it was obvious that his body was more than willing to fill in the blanks for him along the way.

Clint grabbed himself, thrusting into his own hand, and the damp patch that spread from the head of his cock made a surge of electricity run down Phil's spine as he sat up. Latching his mouth onto the side of Clint's throat, Phil sucked hard enough to leave a bruise as he let his hands slip down the back of Clint's underwear, greedily groping at the hard, intoxicating flesh that moulded to his grip.

Clint threw his head back, an unrestrained moan torn from somewhere deep inside him as his fingers convulsively gripped the back of Phil's neck, and Phil knew he was addicted. He knew there'd be no greater sound in his life than the sound of Clint totally at the mercy of his hands and lips, and that knowledge made the heat throb in his groin as he grew harder within the confines of his underwear.

Both of them breaking apart with a pant, they quickly stripped out of their remaining clothes, Phil branding the image of Clint's naked body into his memory. His flesh was rough, marked with the scars of hundreds of battles he'd fought, but that didn't make him any less handsome in Phil's eyes; the definition of his muscles, the unbridled strength in his shoulders and thighs, the sheer perfection almost made him feel quite suddenly self-conscious of his own figure.

It wasn't that he wasn't fit, far from it, but the stunning cut of Clint was enough to make anyone feel envious. Clint must have sensed Phil's own nerves, because Phil was suddenly on his back again, Clint gazing down at him with equal amounts of awe and pure honesty.

"God, Phil, you're beautiful," Clint muttered thickly, and the way that Clint's rough, powerful hands stroked down his skin made his cock throb against the archers hip as Clint started grinding back down against him.

Phil's legs immediately came up to wrap around Clint's waist, his fingers clawing desperately at Clint's shoulders as Clint trailed his lips down Phil's throat. He sucked down hard over Phil's pulse, and Phil felt like he was going to cum like that, bursts of ecstasy flashing brightly behind his eyes as his groin tightened.

Clint seemed to know this, smiling roguishly against Phil's flesh as his mouth continued kissing a winding path down Phil's chest, almost like he was intent on not missing a single inch of skin. He reached the scar that remained from Loki, and Phil could sense him pause for a moment, rubbing his nose delicately against the sensitive tissue.

He struggled to swallow down the lump that formed in his throat when Clint just pressed his lips softly against the scar, his eyes slipping shut as he tried to express all of his feelings, and Phil felt a new swell of affection rise up through him before Clint continued his journey down Phil's form.

Clint's hands wrapped themselves around Phil's hips as his tongue dipped into Phil's belly button, tracing the trail of hair down to his groin until he came to a stop frustratingly close to the head of Phil's cock, his breath skating across the glans as he glanced furtively up the length of Phil's body, his eyes glinting with all sorts of wicked promises as Phil fought to restrain the urge to force Clint's head down and make him stop with his teasing.

Fisting his hands tight into the sheets beneath them, Phil let out a deep moan when Clint's hot mouth finally descended on him, drawing the head of his cock between his lips as he tongued the slit roughly before letting more of Phil's length disappear into his mouth. Clint just held him there, his thumb rubbing circles into Phil's hips as Phil's back arched against the bed, almost hyperventilating as his entire body and brain seemed to shut down.

Gasping out a breath, Phil's knuckles were white, his heels digging into the back of Clint's shoulders convulsively as Clint started to build up a rhythm on his erection, his apex of his tongue pressing into the ridge just beneath the head of Phil's cock as Phil gave up supressing his sighs and groans of pleasure.

The pressure of Clint's lips, the way he swallowed around the head, and the soft whimpers that vibrated in his throat as he started humping the mattress beneath him, desperate for some kind of friction on his own aching cock, it was like a gift from the Gods themselves, and Phil could feel it becoming harder and harder to resist.

His hand groping down the covers to reach the back of Clint's neck, Phil thrust up into that wet heat, his vision going white around the edges when Clint just pinned his hips harder to the bed, increasing his speed until he was almost recklessly trying to bring Phil off. His shoulder blades jutted out from his back sharply, almost as if there were wings threatening to break through his skin, his flesh glistening in the low light of the room as he fixed Phil with a devastatingly intense stare.

Clint was like a fallen angel, cast out and sent to corrupt him, and Phil was powerless to stop himself from surrendering to the throng of pleasure that coated his very skin.

His breaths were shallower, his eyes shut in hopeless desire as his thighs clenched sporadically around Clint's shoulders and upper back, the waves of heat pulsing almost intolerably in his groin as he felt the slipperiness of his precum and Clint's saliva dribbling down the length of his erection.

Just as Phil felt himself preparing to throw himself off the precipice, Clint's mouth left him, and he heard Clint's raspy laugh when Phil couldn't hold back his shouts and groans of sexual agony. Clint stretched over the length of his body, streaks of sticky precum marking Phil's thigh as Clint briefly favoured Phil with a rough, lusty kiss.

Phil reared up, falling into the kiss with everything he had; biting down on Clint's lip when Clint tried to move back, Phil felt the coppery tang of blood against his tongue, moaning at the taste as Clint stared down on him. If Phil had thought that Clint had looked the picture of debauchery before, then he just appeared downright sinful; his eyes were black, blood dribbling down his chin as he pinned Phil to the bed with the power of his presence.

He ground his hips down hard against Phil's groin, and Phil could see the hint of a question reflected back at him in his gaze. Phil felt a lump stick in his throat; he knew what Clint was asking for.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Phil let his hands reach up to caress Clint's ribs, his fingers tracing intricate patterns against his skin until his palms were resting flush either side of Clint's throat. A thousand unspoken things passed between them; Clint's growing fear and doubt, Phil's nerves and finally the reassurance that he felt.

Just for a little while, the rest of reality could wait he thought as he soothingly massaged his thumbs into the tense muscles at the corner of Clint's jaw, smoothing away the worry that he saw creasing the younger man's lips as he gave him a soft, genuine smile.

It took a couple of moments, Clint's eyes examining every inch of his face for any sign of a lie, before an infectious grin broke out on the archers face. Briefly bending down to press a gentle, heartfelt kiss to Phil's mouth, Clint threw his leg off from around Phil's waist as he got down from the bed, scrambling around on the floor to find his jeans.

Phil couldn't help the laugh that he let out; Clint was almost adorable in his eagerness, shaking his head at the little fist-pump of victory the Specialist gave when held up the condom like a trophy.

"Really, Barton? Someone was confident."

"Shut up, Phil," Clint drawled back in response, smirking at the full body shiver Phil couldn't restrain at the sound of his name falling from Clint's lips. "Like you would've said no anyway. We both know that nobody can resist me."

Clint's chuckle was almost nervous at the throwaway statement, and Phil propped himself back up onto his elbows when Clint stood at the foot of the bed. There was a rawness radiating from the archer, and Phil couldn't help but sit up, reaching out to weave his fingers through Clint's, squeezing his hand firmly.

"Hey," Phil whispered encouragingly, noticing for the first time the edge of fear and uncertainty that coloured Clint's eyes. "It's okay Clint, I want this. I want you."

The admission slipped from Phil's lips with no sense of shame or panic, just an awed truth that seemed to visibly strike Clint to the core as he blinked rapidly to regain his composure. His hands were shaking slightly, but the profound honesty and love that he stared back at Phil with emphatically told Phil that this was all going to be okay.

"God Phil," Clint murmured in a hushed realisation, his voice open and vulnerable as he climbed back onto the bed, straddling Phil's hips.

He looked like he wanted to say more, but before he could, Phil leaned forward, swallowing Clint's clumsy confession with his lips; this kiss was markedly different from all the others they had shared, even despite the comparative tameness of it.

It was valediction. It was like coming home. It was the culmination of every shared word, every tear, every experience they'd gone through, and as Phil was laid back, the foreheads resting together so that they were just breathing in each other's air, Phil knew that there was nothing else for him in the world.

Clint leaned back, nudging Phil's thighs apart with his knees as he loosely grabbed the base of his erection. Rolling the condom down his length, Phil felt the anticipation and desire building in his gut when he saw Clint wet two of his fingers thoroughly, spreading his legs further as he reached behind him.

Phil's mouth went dry when Clint gave a high pitched, breathy whine, his thighs and stomach muscles tensing and his bloodied lip sucked hard between his teeth as he started working himself open roughly, and just the visual images flitting through his mind were almost enough to make him come then and there.

Clint's hips were thrusting into nothing, his erection weeping and strained against his abdomen, and Phil felt like he could've cried with relief when Clint withdrew his hand, running his fingers through the precum leaking from the head of his cock and using it to lubricate Phil's cock.

Phil's hips almost jack-knifed of the bed at the feeling of Clint's hand around him, his fingers tightening around Clint's thigh to the point of bruising as he fought to stave off his orgasm. Clint seemed to recognise just how desperate Phil had become, making sure that he was brief and efficient with his efforts before he pulled himself up higher on his knees, straddling Phil's waist carefully.

Phil released his death grip on Clint's leg, brushing over the already purpling marks before clasping his palm around Clint's hip to help steady him as he reached around, grasping the length of Phil's erection as he positioned the head at his entrance. Clint held his breath as he started shifting his position, and Phil felt his eyes roll into the back of his skull, all knowledge of himself falling straight out of brain at the vice like grip of Clint's ass began to take him in.

Clint's eyes were screwed shut as he let out soft whimpers, equal measures of discomfort and pleasure scrawled across his face as he panted out his breath harshly, pausing to accommodate the sudden intrusion before working his way further down the length of Phil's gradually encased erection.

It wasn't the smooth and easy journey that porn made it seem like it was. It was stop/start, both Clint and Phil hissing from the threads of pain that rounded the sharpness off their impending orgasms, but after what felt like a lifetime, Clint was sitting flush against Phil's pelvis, his eyes shooting wide open like he was in the throes of a religious experience.

Phil wasn't that far behind him; Clint was so tight, so hot and snug around his length that Phil wasn't sure how either he or Clint were going to be able to do anything. After a couple of moments to catch his breath, Clint experimentally rolled his hips forward, and Phil gasped at the vivid explosion of colour behind his eyes.

His cock twitched, and the wrecked, throaty moan that was forcibly ripped from Clint told Phil that Clint had felt it too. His hands latching even tighter against Clint's hips, Phil frantically encouraged Clint to start moving.

Clint ground his hips in a tight circle, a choked sob of ecstasy falling from his slacked mouth as one hand rested against Phil's tensed stomach, bracing himself as he lifted himself up a couple of painstaking inches, the muscles in his ass spasmodically clenching around the head of Phil's cock before he eased himself back down with a sigh.

Clint's muscles shifted as he eventually found himself a rhythm that he could work with, and the bursts of mind numbing desire that rocked Phil to the bone made him feel like he was floating as he started driving his hips up shallowly to meet Clint's every thrust.

It couldn't stay so soft for too long, and when Phil put more force behind his movements, a grunt of startled pleasure echoed around the room as Clint almost collapsed on top of him.

"Oh my God, fuck Phil, do that again," Clint moaned desperately, and when Phil snapped his hips harder, forcing that intoxicating sound out of Clint as the archer writhed in helpless craving, his eyes blown with lust as he gazed wildly at Phil, Phil could no longer hold back, forcing Clint into a harder, faster rhythm as he pounded into him.

Clint was sobbing, his words incoherent other than the litany of Phil's name that he was chanting like a prayer, and when he clenched his muscles hard around Phil's cock, near enough making Phil scream, Phil could feel the overwhelming heat of his orgasm pooling in his gut.

The air was thick with the crude ringing of skin hitting skin, with the dirty pleas and begs for more falling from their lips, and when Clint buckled on top of him, meeting his lips in a messy, unco-ordinated kiss as Phil just fucked him harder, Phil was almost certain that nothing would come as close to perfect as being here with Clint in this moment.

It was like they were one body, one soul, one complete being, and when the muscles in Clint's groin tightened up even further, Phil was solely focused on the overwhelming desire to make Clint come for him.

Reaching his hand up, Phil loosely wrapped his fingers around Clint's erection, revelling in the startled gasp that was ripped out of his Asset as a thick streak of precum oozed from the slit of his cock, liberally dribbling over the tips of his fingers as he started to work Clint firm and fast.

Clint visibly struggled to control himself, his head thrown back as he bit down on his swollen bottom lip hard enough to bring new beads of blood to the surface. The growing resistance, the breathy whines of his name falling uncontrollably from Clint's mouth as Phil could see the tears starting to streak down Clint's flushed and sweaty skin, it was enough to make Phil's head swim.

He was almost numb to his own responses, his own desire for pleasure falling onto the backburner as he kept his hips moving at a deep, deliberate pace. Clint was no longer moving on him, his thighs tensed as he just concentrated on surviving the white hot blaze of ecstasy that was threatening to consume him.

Clint's hand flew down, tangling around Phil's own fingers. His hand was moving at almost a blur, his actions frantic and frenzied as he raced towards the pinnacle of his lust. Just the sight and feel of Clint so desperate for release, so open and exposed just for him as Phil thumbed the ridge under Clint's head insistently, was a thing of beauty.

The knowledge that no-one else in the world would've been privy to the sight of Clint like this just made it even more intense. All of his senses were fuzzy and thick with layers of hunger, longing and a bone deep yearning that Phil couldn't believe he'd been so blind as to miss before, and the knot of heat in his gut reached fever point.

His rhythm faltering completely, Phil gave one last hard thrust before he was thrown head first over the edge, his vision going completely white as he succumbed to the flare of heat that spiked through him.

Clint tensed, letting out a choked, breathy moan of sheer pleasure as he finally came, strings of come hitting Phil's stomach as Phil carried on thrusting indulgently through his own climax, the resistance and vice-like grip of Clint's ass around him ebbing out the last blinding throbs of his orgasm.

Clint finally panted out the breath that Phil wasn't even aware he'd been holding as he became almost deadweight against Phil's chest, but Phil couldn't bring himself to care as the glow of their shared pleasure dulled his sense of reality.

It was like he was dreaming, his thoughts sluggish and fragmented before he gave up trying to decipher the implications of what had just happened in favour of keeping hold of the shreds of numbed, near sex-drunk feelings that warmly lulled him into sated relaxation.

The air smelled like sex, and whilst Phil had never really understood the reference in the past, the scent of sweat and heat and something that was undeniably Clint was one that Phil didn't think he was ever going to want to scrub out of his flesh again in his life.

Clint let out a reverent sigh, pressing soft, lazy kisses to the sweaty skin beneath him as he nuzzled his face into Phil's chest, and Phil couldn't hold back the almost drunk grin that curled his lips.

He'd never pegged Clint as a cuddler, but as the archer wrapped himself around Phil like a second skin, rubbing against him affectionately almost as if he was an adoring kitten craving the attention of its owner, Phil found that he didn't care as he loosely wrapped his arms around Clint's back, pressing his lips into the mass of messy hair on the crown of Clint's head.

The frantic pounding of his heart gradually calmed down, his skin cooling rapidly even despite the warm body draped across his own, but Phil couldn't bring himself to move. A euphoric sense of peace had descended over both of them, and Phil was loathe to even think about breaking the fragility of the moment.

His eyes falling shut of their accord, Phil could feel the faint furls of sleep tinging the edge of his afterglow as he deeply breathed in the comforting scent of Clint's hair, but before he could surrender to his fatigue, the spell that had fallen around them was interrupted.

"So," Clint whispered, his voice raw from his screams and underlined with the heaviness of his own contented exhaustion. "I guess we need to have that talk, huh?"

Phil let out a soft sigh, his arms tightening instinctively around the archer; he wasn't ready for the experience to be over. He wasn't ready for reality to come crashing back down around them, but that irritatingly consummate professional, the one whose concern was just starting to break back through the haziness in his mind, knew that they couldn't put this off any longer.

Pressing his lips tenderly to the side of Clint's head, Phil started to massage soothing circles into the smooth flesh between Clint's shoulder blades, feeling the way that Clint was starting to tense against him the longer the silence continued.

"Can't it wait?" Phil almost reluctantly whined out before his brain had a chance to filter out his protests.

It wasn't very often that he was able to bypass that rational part of his thought process, and apparently, he wasn't the only one who was surprised about it. Clint pulled back, never breaking contact with Phil, but just enough so that he could look him in the eye.

A bittersweet smile was curling his lips, his eyes dark with both affection and doubt, and Phil was struck by the sudden desire to kiss away the words of regret that he feared were about to spill out of the vulnerable archer.

"I'm sorry Phil, but I… I need to do this."

Phil swallowed thickly against the dryness in his throat, nodding his agreement; he couldn't trust his voice not to betray him. Clint just gazed at him with a profound gratefulness and awe that had Phil struggling to restrain the shiver that rippled down his spine.

"I know… I know I said a lot of things, some really horrible, shitty things, and I know that this can never really go anywhere, but I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. I… I know that you'd never leave or try and get rid of me, or, or do something just because you felt sorry for me, and I do trust you, I reall- Oomph!"

Clint's words were cut off when Phil pulled him down, unable to help himself as he pressed a gentle, heartfelt kiss to Clint's open mouth. It lasted no longer than a few seconds before Clint pulled back, looking down at Phil with such confusion and shock that Phil couldn't help but let out a breathy laugh as he cupped the palm of his hand around Clint's cheek, tracing his bottom lip with the pad of his thumb.

"Has anyone ever told you you talk way too much?"

Clint smiled, his eye glinting as he pressed the lips against the wandering touch that brushed his mouth, his eyebrow raising despite himself.

"Other than you, Sir?"

Phil could feel that contented rumble deep in his chest, that ball of warmth gradually spreading through him as he regarded Clint with equal measures of seriousness and fondness.

"Clint," he started, watching as the glint in Clint's eyes suddenly dimmed, hidden beneath the fear and uncertainty that Phil could see rising in him.

"I know. I know you trust me. I know that it's been hard for you, and I know that I've pushed you too hard and too far too many times to be proud of."

Clint looked like he was going to interject, but Phil just pressed his thumb against his lips, effectively silencing him.

"I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you."

His whispered tone wavered under the weight of the guilt he finally let Clint see as he brushed the tips of his fingers through the strands of hair that had fallen across Clint's face.

Clint's own features seemed to crumple, his vulnerability so devastatingly exposed as he leaned down, catching Phil off guard with a kiss of his own. Phil seemed torn between latching onto the tender affection Clint was showing him or pushing him away to revel in his own sense of self-loathing, but it seemed like Clint wasn't going to give him the option of choosing as he let his mouth mould insistently to Phil's.

"I know," Clint mumbled into Phil's mouth between kisses. "And you can't keep beating yourself up over it. I know you feel like it's your fault I got hurt, but it wasn't." Clint eventually pulled back, his eyes filled with heart breaking honesty as he stared down at Phil.

"If it meant protecting you, I'd choose death every single time."

Phil was stunned, his heart seizing in his chest as he felt tears blurring the edges of his vision. He couldn't think of anything to say, anything that could come close in comparison to Clint's confession, anything that would be worthy of the conversation they were having, but Clint seemed to realise this.

Smiling softly, Clint let his hand drift down to caress Phil's bruised cheek.

"Phil, I love you, and even if this means that we can't work together again, or that you don't want to see me again, if it makes you happy, it'll be worth every second of pain and misery I go through for it."

Time seemed to stand still, Phil's gut twisting into knots as he was hit by the true implications of Clint's words. Clint – wonderful, perfectly imperfect Clint – was willing to put himself through whatever he thought Phil wanted, was willing to let himself languish with the veracity of his feelings, regardless of how much agony it caused him, if it was what Phil wanted.

Phil swallowed thickly, the lump in his throat making it almost impossible to breathe; he'd never had anyone so willing or desperate to sacrifice their life – both literally and metaphorically – for him, and it was the strength of Clint's convictions that made the last of the doubt and guilt fall away from him as he pulled Clint into him, burying his cheek into Clint's hair as he gave a genuine, tear-filled chuckle.

"Oh Clint, like I'd survive five minutes without you right by my side. I love you too, you silly bastard."

He felt Clint's grin against his throat, felt the dampness of Clint's tears as he shook unreservedly in his arms, and Phil felt that same intense burst of love and yearning thrumming beneath his skin as he held him tighter, murmuring every last confession into the younger man's ear as they laid entwined on Phil's bed.

They still had a long way to go, but this was most definitely a start.

~x~

As he finally awoke the next morning, his body curled possessively around the warm, relaxed body in his arms, the one that stirred groggily before gracing him with that soft, sleepy smile he'd always dreamed about, Phil couldn't help but grin back as he tightened his grip, nuzzling his cheek against the messy, tousled mass of hair as he felt the last of his doubts and guilt melt away.

He couldn't bring himself to care when the mood was broken by Stark walking straight in yelling about some new design he'd create. The way that Stark stopped in the middle of the room, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish as his eyes widened comically, was more than enough entertainment to start his day with.

"Hey Tony, looking for something?" Clint's sleep-tinged voice growled out, the amusement thick and unhidden in his tone as he propped himself up onto his elbow, and Phil knew that Clint – being the cocky, flirtatious little shit he was – was fluttering his eyelids at the flustered billionaire; he buried his smile in the back of Clint's neck, a laugh building in his chest.

"From you, Cupid? I don't think so. There's just some things in this world that you don't need to see."

As Stark turned on his heel, walking straight back out the bedroom, neither of them could hold back their grins, Clint positively glowing in Phil's arms as he shifted to lay on his back, looking up at his handler. There was none of that fear or doubt lacing his stare, just a bone deep openness and honesty that made Phil's heart feel like it was going to skip a beat.

"So, how long until the rest of them know?"

Phil rolled his eyes, an expression of mock contemplation settling on his face as Clint started laying kisses against his throat.

"Knowing Stark, I'd give it half an hour maybe. Wouldn't surprise me if he was waking the others up just to tell them."

"Well," Clint whispered, running his hand teasingly down the length of Phil's ribs, and Phil mentally made a note to learn some techniques so that if Clint pulled anything in public, or God forbid on the field, Phil wouldn't react to his touch like some kind of Pavlovian stimulus as he gave a full body shiver. "We could always ruin his fun and let them know before Tony does."

Phil raised an eyebrow.

"And how do you suppose we… Oh."

Phil's brain finally caught up with the underlying heat in Clint's words, a wicked smile breaking out on his face when he felt the way that Clint's fingers dug into his hips. Letting out an affectionately exasperated huff, Phil leaned over Clint, loving the way that Clint's head rolled back onto the pillow, instinctively baring his throat as Phil grazed his teeth over Clint's pulse.

"I guess we could do that."

If it took them nearly an hour longer to get ready that morning compared to normal, then none of the others commented on it when they finally appeared, dressed and only slightly dishevelled in the kitchen.

And if Clint or Phil noticed the way that Natasha smiled at them, or the way that Steve's eyes softened as he passed them their drinks across the table, then they weren't going to say anything either.

Taking a sip of his scalding hot coffee, Phil felt the way that Clint's hand nudged against his under the table, tentatively twining their fingers together before giving him a squeeze; hiding his smile against his cup, Phil responded in kind, feeling the blush crawling up his face.

"Hey, Legolas, don't start no funny business in my kitchen. You've already scarred me once today!"

And if only Phil felt the way that Clint's thumb brushed against the top of his hand before Clint threw his teabag at Stark, then that was just Phil's luck.


	11. Epilogue

**A/N: So, final part! To everyone who's stuck with me on this, thank you!**

* * *

_Epilogue: 9 months later_

It was dark.

Clint couldn't hear any sounds to indicate that the hostiles were still around, but that didn't mean he could let his guard down for one second. He could feel the heat in the room rising, his lungs struggling for any oxygen that was being burnt from the air as he gasped ineffectually, trying not to let his panic overwhelm him.

Sometimes, it was the psychological torture that scared him more than the physical. At least you could compartmentalise broken bones, blood and bruises, but when you had all your senses stripped from you, your ability to fight back taken away, that was when the cold sweat would run down your back.

Clint had no idea how long he'd been bound to the table he was on, his wrists chafed and bloody from his struggles against the rope that held him there. The blindfold his capturers had tied around his eyes hadn't moved in his violent attempts to break free, even when he'd been caught in the throes of agony.

He was alone.

He was helpless.

It terrified the hell out of him, flashbacks of Canada assaulting his already disorientated mind and making him feel ill.

He couldn't scream; the capsicum slick gag they'd forced into his mouth made sure of it. He didn't want to scream anyway.

He needed to reserve his energy.

The white hot fire that had been left to blaze in the corner of the room was releasing thick, cloying wisps of smoke that made Clint's chest ache as it stole the breaths he was trying desperately to keep hold of.

His stomach was knotted; his fear and near hysterical anxiety were growing stronger with every slow minute that ticked past.

He needed a distraction.

He needed something.

He needed Phil to hurry his ass up.

Grasping onto the mantra _'Phil is coming, Phil is coming_' like it was some kind of lifeline to keep him sane, Clint clenched his eyes shut, taking deep steadying breaths in through his bloodied nose to try and compose himself.

Unaware of the rest of reality that was starting to fast disappear from his clutches, Clint started to weakly hum. It was a different tune to what it used to be; this was one that reminded him of Phil, and as he felt his body reflexively relax at the broken sound, he suddenly heard an explosion of noise coming from somewhere outside the room he was being kept in.

A flicker of hope broached through him, but Clint refused to let himself to lulled into a false sense of security as he renewed his efforts to finish the cracked hum with an urgency pounding in his veins.

He felt his sanity beginning to fray around the edges, his panic throbbing in the pit of stomach, and when the heavy sound of boots on gravel descended on him, Clint could no longer retain that modicum of composure he'd frantically tried to create as he thrashed against his bonds, his skin and chest feeling like it was on fire.

When a hand touched his face, Clint flinched, a whimper escaping him despite his best efforts to hide his weakness. The scrap of fingertips against his stubble disappeared for a moment, before he felt the back of his head lifted.

The blindfold fell from his eyes, and the sudden influx of light that blinded him made the nausea he'd tried to hold back attack him voraciously. As the gag was prised from between his swollen, cracked lips, the sudden deep breath that Clint greedily gulped down was so sharp and so painful that within moments, Clint had rolled onto his side, retching violently as he threw up what little contents there was in his stomach.

A gentle hand appeared at the back of his neck, a thumb rubbing soothing circles into the tense, trembling muscle, and when a bottle of water was eventually pressed to his lips, Clint dared to open his eyes, groaning weakly as the world spun around him.

The dull burn of the rope being cut off of his wrists was barely acknowledged; the sudden coldness of the air was though, and as the smoke cleared, his body shivering uncontrollably against the drop in temperature, Clint could finally see through the haze of lights and fog that had clouded his vision.

Phil smiled at him, his eyes black with what Clint knew from personal experience was a mix of concern, relief and adrenaline as that soothing hand never stopped its anchoring caresses.

"Hey, Phil," Clint slurred heavily, his tone rough and gravelly.

Just forming those two words had taken so much energy out of him, and he felt his eyes drift shut when Phil's thumb trailed up the side of his neck to the edge of his jaw, encouraging him to open his mouth and take another sip of water. The icy liquid was like the nectar of the gods as it soothed his throat, the pain in his chest and lungs settling down into a dull, deep ache.

When he finally managed to open his eyes again, he could see the way that Phil was kneeling on the ground beside him, Natasha stood over the top of him as she steadied Clint's upper body.

Phil leaned in closer to Clint as he let his thumb drift to stroke over the corner of Clint's lips, Clint feeling his entire body melt into Phil's reassuring touch even as he continued to shake.

"Hey Clint, time to take you home I think."

Clint could clearly hear the tremor of nerves and fear that coloured Phil's otherwise strong, authoritative tone as his handler leaned back and started barking out orders at the rest of the Agents that Clint hadn't even noticed were present.

"Reckon you can stand, Barton?" Phil asked him seriously, the professional in him taking over from the concerned lover, and Clint's lips twitched.

"Only if you're holding me, Sir."

Now that Clint was coming down from the wave of panic and adrenaline, the pain that had previously wracked his body beginning to fade into the background, he sounded almost drunk.

Belatedly realising that Phil, or medical, or somebody, must have slipped the good drugs in with his water to make sure that he took them, Clint gave a hoarse hiss when, with the help of Natasha, Tony, and a blur of red, white and blue that he assumed was Steve, he was sat upright, before being pulled onto his feet.

If it wasn't for the hands that reached out to support him, Clint probably would've ended up collapsed into a heap on the floor; as it was, he heard the whoosh of breath the escaped Phil's lungs when he let himself become dead weight against his solid, warm body.

He felt woozy, unsteady and nauseous; he wasn't sure that he could muster up the strength to do something as simple as putting one foot in front of the other. Phil wrapped an arm around his waist, throwing one of Clint's arms across his shoulder as Steve took up position on his other side, supporting him between them.

Clint barely managed to restrain the instinctive flinch that he wanted to give at the feeling of them both plastered so close against his clammy, over sensitised flesh; he felt the way that Phil's knuckles brushed soothingly against his stomach, and Clint let his temple rest against Phil's shoulder, letting out an exhausted sigh.

"Knew… you'd come, Phil," Clint mumbled out beneath his breath, the combination of the drugs, heat and exhaustion obviously blocking out the filter that Clint usually had in place.

He normally wasn't one to get so emotional and open in the field, especially when it came to Phil. In the field, whilst on missions, they had to push aside any inclination of their connection with each other, any feelings that could compromise them; they were both consummate professionals at the end of the day, and whilst they weren't actively hiding their relationship, it wasn't like they were screaming it from the rooftop of SHIELD base either.

Clint couldn't bring himself to care this time though as he felt himself being directed through the maze of corridors to the Medevac jeep awaiting them outside. Apparently, neither could Phil.

Giving a weak, vulnerable smile at the way that Phil sat next to him in the back of the jeep, his hands brushing against every inch of skin that Phil could touch as he pressed a gentle kiss against the side of Clint's head, Clint let out a sigh when Phil pulled him down, his head being pillowed against the wad of material Phil had placed on his thighs.

Belatedly realising that it was Phil's jacket cushioning his face, Clint roughly turned himself over, nuzzling his face comfortingly against Phil's stomach as he felt the tremors coming back full force again, his body tense and aching as he let out a choked whimper that he was too tired to hold back.

Within seconds, the backs of Phil's fingers were stroking tenderly down his cheek, smoothing out the lines of distress and anxiety creasing his face as his other hand laced itself with Clint's, hugging it close to him like an anchor for Clint to hold on to.

"It's okay Clint, I've got you. I promised I wouldn't abandon you. You're safe now."

As Phil's soft, lilting honey tones broke through the fractured images and sensations in Clint's mind, Clint gave a faint smile, the weight of his exhaustion too much to bear as he fell into a fitful sleep, cradled by Phil's protective touches.

Yes, this was safety.

This was where he belonged.


End file.
